


House Guest

by Doxx



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalism, Captivity, Conditioning, Cutting, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Food is People, Hypothermia, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Hannibal, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Touching, Oddly named raccoon, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, dark themes, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 106,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doxx/pseuds/Doxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt.</p><p>Will figures out who and what Hannibal really is. In response Hannibal steals Will away, and sets to a long-term plan of bringing Will round to his way of thinking.<br/>Will unsurprisingly is resistant to the idea of joining in with Hannibal's idea of the perfect meal, but Hannibal is a master of manipulation, and with no-one coming to the rescue, he has plenty of time to change Will's mind.</p><p>No season 2 spoilers, but some mild spoilers for season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt: "I need Hannibal, over a period of time, conditioning Will. When the good doctor believes Will is ready, he prepares a meal for them from the flesh of someone Will knows and/or is close to.
> 
> *Bonus points* for Will resisting.  
> *Cookies* for Will knowing who Hannibal is before 'the meal', but being too far gone.  
> *My soul* for the person said 'meal' came from being still alive and having to watch Will give in and /enjoy/ it.
> 
> General dapper creepiness from Hannibal and inner turmoil from Will encouraged."
> 
> kinkmeme can be found here: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=1024607

His shoulders had started to ache from his feeble attempts to get free, and though he knew the handcuffs around his wrists would not give, he continued to pull and test the restraints that held him padlocked to the high backed chair. 

Solid wood, likely oak knowing the Doctor’s refined tastes, old and oiled and too well made to come apart, even if he could get purchase with what precious little movement allowed to him. At first, the long zip-tie around his neck had frightened him, but it was loose and did not tighten, he could only feel its presence when he strained against the harsh plastic. He could, he supposed, throw himself to the floor, but with his feet zip-tied together, and his hands bound behind him, and his neck secured, William Graham decided he’d rather remain upright.

The familiar dinner table in front of him, and low lighting, did not quell the rising sense of panic he felt, his heart beating fast and erratic, but at least he could see when Hannibal entered the room. He tried desperately to convince himself that he’d prefer to see, when the killer finally emerged from the kitchen.

It had happened fast, Will’s neurons finally snapping to conclusion as the doctor closed the distance. A glint of metal in his hands, Hannibal seemed to think better of the knife and instead threw his body weight to pin Will against the books of his office library, forearm against throat, his expression one of grudging acceptance, as one might wear when processing the inevitable passing of a pet. Will scrabbled for a weapon, for words, for anything to stop the darkness pressing in around him, but Hannibal was strong, and insistent that William would succumb. He remembered his body started to weaken, his air absent, and then nothing.

Waking up, was an exercise in dread and panic. 

It was not eased by the sounds of someone busying themselves in the kitchen, the click and clang of metal pans and utensils ringing through to the dining area. Hannibal. Hannibal, who Will had confided and trusted in. Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper.

He dared not call out, for fear of hastening whatever plans Hannibal had for him. He knew the house was too far for anyone of use to hear and come to his aid. He considered trying to bite his own tongue, to cheat the murderer out of his death, but at the first tang of blood in his mouth he found himself too horrified by Hannibal’s eating habits to complete the task.

When Dr Lecter did enter through the doorway, it was at an unhurried pace, giving a nod of recognition to Will as though greeting him. He sat down beside William, straightening a fork which has strayed slightly from its place setting, and rested his hands in his lap.

“Dinner shall be served momentarily. First though, would you like some pain killers? You’ll likely have a fierce headache, and I would not see you in undue discomfort.”

Will laughed, though it was an airless sound, shock tightening his vocal chords till all he could manage was a near hysterical huff of disbelieve at Hannibal’s calm and composed manner.

Hannibal quirked his head to the side, and said nothing, awaiting a reply. It took Will a moment to collect himself enough to give answer.

“No…” he whispered.

“Suit yourself. You may change your mind, but I thought you might like a chance for the bitterness of such medicines to dissipate before we dined.”

At the word ‘dined’ Will shuddered, and drew back in the chair, his fear crystallising. Hannibal observed the reaction with a clinical coldness, almost disappointment.

“Really Will,” he chastised, “Calm yourself. We have a long night ahead of us, and I do believe a meal will be in our best interests to see us through to dawn.”

A sob welled up under Will’s skin, threatening to escape at the thought of his death being drawn out, prolonged exposure to the monster so very creative in his macabre arts.

“…I find I have no appetite.” He said softly, closing his eyes for fear of seeing the horrific designs in store for him.

“A pity. Perhaps you might change your mind once you see what I have prepared for you.”

William did not open his eyes, but he could feel the shift in air as Hannibal rose and heard his footsteps withdraw into the kitchen. He kept his head bowed low when Hannibal returned, the soft click of china signalling that a pair of plates had been placed at each setting.

When fingertips brushed against his cheek, so softly, he flinched violently, his whole body rocking in the chair as his eyes flew open to see Hannibal slowly lower his hand, and gesture to the meal in front of him.

A thick slice of fresh baked bread, still warm from the oven, threaded through with dark silvers of olive and a pat of sea salt butter on the side for spreading. Vibrant green salad leaves, young and bright, with more dark olives, yellow peppers, red onions sliced so thin as to apparent ghostly in their translucence, garnished with lemon and an only faintly oily dressing, and dusted with parmesan and cracked black pepper.

An identical plate sat in front of Hannibal, and Will frowned in confusion.

“Is this.. some kind of last meal…?”

Hannibal chuckled, “I should hope not. The vegetarian option is hardly suitable for the final taste of the moral world. However, I suspected that you would prefer a meat-free meal at present.” There was an underlying hiss at the word ‘vegetarian’, as if it left a bad taste in the doctor’s mouth. He remained standing as he reached for a bottle nestled in a cooler.

 

Hannibal finished pouring what looked like a sparkling wine into both round glasses, the bubbles sparse. Not champagne, Will thought, his mind reeling and trying to make sense of the scene before him. Hannibal came round to his side, and leant in close.

He held a fork daintily, and speared a mouthful of salad and held it out for Will.

“Try a little. I think you’ll find the light dressing refreshing, even if you are not hungry.”

Will breathed heavily through his nose, clenching his teeth against the offering. He shook his head, frantic, frightened at what consequences his refusal might invoke.

Hannibal replaced the fork on the plate, setting it so it would not tip from the table, and picked up the wineglass. 

“Perhaps a sip, to whet your appetite then?”

Another shake of the head. 

Hannibal exhaled quietly, and picked up the bread, using the flat of the knife to glide a sheen of butter across its surface, smooth and softening into the warm dough. He held the slice up to Will’s face, closer than before. Will’s eyes darted from the bread to Hannibal’s eyes, now fixed upon his own. He swallowed and made to shake his head against when Hannibal lifted a finger to halt him. 

“I really must insist you try the bread. It is most flavoursome when warm from the oven, and the room is unfortunately too cool to keep it at its very best.”

Meekly, wondering if there was a true threat in Hannibal’s words or it just sounded like he had no choice, William opened his mouth.

Hannibal held the bread near his lips, allowed William to control the bite without straining against the zip-tie round his neck. His teeth closed in on a small mouthful, and he chewed it, all the while staring at Hannibal, trying to see what the man could be thinking.

The smile, genuine and pleased, surprised him, and he took another bite to keep in his capturer’s good favour. He did not really taste the food, and his fear not allowing his stomach to settle from the nervous nausea he felt. Even as he licked the butter from his lips, his mouth felt dry, and he looked to Hannibal.

“A drink. Please?” he asked, shocked at how small his voice sounded.

“Of course.”

The wineglass was tilted gently to his lips, and he let the liquid flow over his tongue. It was cool, pleasant, and felt entirely out of place with the dread he felt gathering in his guts.

 

“I don’t understand…” he said, shaking his head against another taste.

Hannibal seemed satisfied in what little Will had consumed, and put the glass down. He circled round the chair where Will was seated, and opened his hands over the spread at the table.

“Open your eyes, my dear Will. _See_.”

Will swallowed hard, reluctant, till Hannibal’s unmoving presence told him he had little choice. He forced himself to look at the table, and arrange what he saw into order.

“Tell me what you see.” Hannibal coaxed, in tones similar to Jack Crawford.

“You are sitting next to me, now that I know. You are not afraid of what I might see, not afraid to be so close. You like that you can sit near me. Two plates, equal, interchangeable. You’d exchange them if I asked, so I know neither is doped or drugged. You’d not contaminate the food, it goes against everything you work to accomplish in matching flavours, but you are catering to my fears, trying to alleviate them through the lack of meat, sacrificing your preferences for my sake.” 

Will stopped to take a deep breath, and flicked his glance to Hannibal, seeking confirmation that he was correct so far, Hannibal gave a small nod, encouraging, and Will continued;  
“The wine is not champagne; this is not a celebration. You didn’t want this. But this chair is different from your usual dinning set, and the handcuffs and zip-ties indicate that this was planned …. For when I figured it out, because you knew I eventually would, and you were waiting ….” 

“If you planned for my realisation, you’ll surely have planned for what happens next. There will be somewhere else, outfitted and ready for you, somewhere far from here. You’ll take very little, only what cannot be replaced. Everything else you’ll leave…. Waiting to be found when the FBI investigate my disappearance. It’ll be noted before yours is, but the co-incidence will make getting a warrant priority. And they’ll find everything… just as you decide to leave it for them. You’ll mock them, leave tokens that showed how close you were without them realising, leave all the little clues they should have picked up on in plain sight….”

He looked down, and saw that the legs of the chair rested on the wooden floorboards. His breath was coming faster now, as he approached his own part in Hannibal’s plan. “No coverings, no plastic sheets, so you don’t care if I bleed onto your floor, leaving evidence stained into the wood.”

His eyes, glistening, rose up and met Hannibal’s, “I’m the focal point. This meal, this set up, it centres round me. You’ll …you’ll use me, my death, as a last taunt. At them for not seeing what you really were, at me for trusting you… Fuck, I was so stupid…”

“I do not care for such language at the dinner table Will.” Hannibal said softly, as he took the stem of his wineglass in long elegant fingers, sniffing and sipping the liquid contained appreciatively. “And while you have many varied and complex qualities, William Graham, I would never use the word stupid to describe you.” 

Anger flared, at Hannibal’s unnerving calmness, at being remanded for swearing in his last hours, and at his own foolishness in believing the friendship between them was anything but a ploy to ease suspicion from Dr Lecter’s true identity. Will’s face contorted, screwing up in untempered rage at the killer at the table.

“And how would you describe me _doctor_? Usefully naive? Blindly trusting?” his voice faltered, and dropped to a low, coarse whisper, “Succulent?”

Hannibal lowered his glass, setting it neatly on the table, and turned to face Will. His eyes roamed over Will’s bound body, scrutinising every detail, and Will found himself feeling naked under that cold gaze.

“Exceptional.” Hannibal breathed, as if appraising the wine vintage, “Gifted, certainly, and quite unique.”

The words of compliment made Will more uncomfortable, and he shifted in the chair, as if trying to dislodge them from his ears.

“However,” Hannibal continued, “whilst you were very astute in your observations, I feel I ought to correct you. You said I would not leave behind anything irreplaceable. Therefore, my dear Will, when we finish our meal and allow a little time for digestion, I shall be taking you with me when I depart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not yet finished, but i wanted to give you a taste (pun entirely intended) of the story i am currently working on, and very much enjoying. 
> 
> The plot arc and rough event timeline is finished, it is just a case of getting down the details. 
> 
> I'll be bringing it across from the kinkmeme at regular intervals, but it's already sitting at 54 parts long, so i shall have to beg your patience before i post the final chapter. 
> 
> Comments are always very welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing so melodramatic as a feeling of breath and heart stopping within his chest, or of the world screeching to a halt. There was just Hannibal, looking mildly amused at Will’s gaping silence, taking his own bread from his plate and his nostrils flaring as he sampled the scent of the steam still rising, before spreading butter and taking a bite. His eyes slipped closed, and he chewed slowly, the very corners of his lips upturned.

By the time he had finished his mouthful, Will had managed to regain his voice.

“A hostage? You plan to use me as a hostage?!” he sounded squeaky, scared, and with great reluctance he drew upon the lessons Hannibal had imparted. Deep breaths, visualise the panic receding, master the body, the thoughts.

Will hated that it worked.

“Not a hostage. A house guest.”

Bowed head, zip-ties pressing against neck, body shaking with dismay and dread; while he could not fathom Hannibal, he knew the Chesapeake Ripper. Cruel, clever and cunning and Will was certain he did not want to be a long-term ‘guest’ of such a sadist.

“Kill me.” he breathed, hardly loud enough to be heard. “Just kill me now and have done with it.”

The rumble of a chair being moved back, careful, not scraping against the floor, answered him. He was sweating, and his skin sensitised, so he could feel the warmth of a presence approach him, sharing his space, his _air_.

He did not fight hand at his neck, against his most vulnerable area, still bruised and tender from Hannibal’s last contact. When his chin was gently coaxed upwards however, he was surprised, expecting instead a crushing force at his windpipe.

“That would be such a terrible waste. I do not want to kill you Will, nor even hurt you unnecessarily.” Hannibal’s voice was soft and sincere, and Will, despite everything believed him. He wondered if the Ripper persona was compartmentalised from the physiatrist, locked away until ready to release, but then he recalled the satisfaction on Dr Lecter’s face as he cooked, as he served the proof of his kills to his unwitting diners. He shuddered, knowing he had eaten human flesh, knowing that he had probably even complimented Hannibal on the taste.

Hannibal was a monster through and through, he was just very, very good at hiding it.

However, his words rang true, which gave Will some courage, if not exactly reassurance of his long-term longevity. “’Unnecessarily’ is an interesting quantifier. I’m not sure I like it.”

Hannibal raised a brow, so close that the absence of change in the thin of his mouth seemed all the more striking; “You’d rather I lied? Or perhaps you would prefer I was blunt about things? Fine. I will not hurt you unless your actions give me cause. Or circumstances change beyond my control and in order to secure my own survival you have to be incapacitated…”

“Or killed.” Will added, knowing that particular outcome was not out with his capturer’s ability, nor moral limitations.

“Or killed.” Hannibal agreed, his thumb curling to stroke along the line of William’s jaw. “But as I said, it would be a waste, and it would sadden me.”

“But not stop you.”

“No.” 

Will took a shaky breath, his lungs struggling to work around the presence of Hannibal’s hand at his throat, no matter how light the touch was. The doctor seemed to sense his difficulty, and with one last glancing caress, pulled away.

Clean air filled him, and he steadied himself, straightening in his chair. When he lifted his head, Will saw that Hannibal had returned to his plate, spearing salad leaves upon his fork and slipping them into his mouth.

Will wondered if he was dreaming, or hallucinating. The scene had the same serene qualities, soft and hazy, with a feeling of horror hovering at the edges, like a pacing beast. That Hannibal seemed entirely at ease, ignoring Will in favour of the flavours on his fork, did not help the sense of strangeness. 

Their eyes met, and Hannibal’s focus shifted down to Will’s hardly touched meal. “Hungry?”

Will Graham felt exhausted, the fading rush of adrenaline consuming what little was left of his energies. His head ached, his shoulders growing number from their stiff position. Hollow, empty, and without the will to fight against Hannibal, not when he was showing such clear signs of enjoyment, and Will knew the food would be excellent.

He could not remember when he had last eaten, but could easily guess it had been unsubstantial and quickly gobbled down. If he was going to survive, he’d need every scrap of energy he could muster, and he doubted whatever snack he’d consumed between lecture hall and morgue and Crawford’s office would suffice.

He nodded, deciding to bide his time.

Without comment, Hannibal shifted so that his chair was closer so he did not have to overextend his reach. Alternating between feeding himself and Will, Hannibal offered carefully proportioned mouthfuls of salad and bread, and wine, at a leisurely pace.

The food _was_ excellent. The sharpness of the lemons and tang of the salad was muted by the sweet crunch of pepper. The onions added spice, the olives salt, and the heady smell of parmesan gave the dish weight where there shouldn’t have been. The bread, likewise, was balanced between creamy butter and light airiness, the slivers of olives grounding it with their earthy taste and texture.

However, the necessary proximity of Hannibal’s position brought the crunch of crisp leaves, and crust of bread between teeth to Will’s ears, eventually escalating his natural nervousness into full-blown twitching at the slightest sound. The doctor noticed this, and stilled a forkful of glistening leaves, hovering over the white china.

“I think, perhaps, we are done here.” His voice was soothing, rather than irritated at the remainder of the meals still on the plates. He brought a deep maroon napkin to dab Will’s lips and chin, where a touch of dressing had dripped free. He did not resist the silken touch against him, though it made his skin crawl. When he had finished, Hannibal laid the napkin on the table and rose from his seat.

“I am going to remove the bindings around your legs and neck.” He said, and held up a stout knife from his pocket, allowing Will to witness the tool he would use. Will kept very still as the blade sliced through the zip-ties around his trousers, but as the edge approached his neck, instinct overrode his intent, and he jerked back in the chair, causing it to rock slightly.

A heavy hand on his shoulder, resting there, letting Will feel the weight, gave him something else to focus on. With a quick strike, Hannibal flicked his wrist and cut the tie before Will could react.

He looked down dumbly at the cut remains of plastic that fell into his lap, trying to sense if the blade had touched his skin, waiting to see if blood would follow. It took him a moment to realise that he was unscathed. He glanced to Hannibal, who was putting the knife away.

The man seemed almost relaxed, his face still. Everything in his movements was smooth, a parody of the tremor that had gripped Will’s bones and refused to subside. He felt he might well begin to rattle given time.

Hannibal circled behind him, and Will could swear his footfalls were purposefully louder that he might be able to track his movements. He twisted to see, all the same, as far as the high back of the chair would allow him. 

“I am going to unlock the padlock. Stay still.”

Will made poor job of the command, shaking and straining to keep Hannibal in his sights, but he heard the padlock click open and his wrists, still cuffed together, fell under the pull of gravity. He pulled forward, testing his new range of movement, and found he was free of the chair, and could stand in he wanted. 

A hand, again heavy on his shoulder, halted his progress.

“Slowly,” Hannibal advised, in his maddeningly comforting cadence, “you might be light-headed yet, and you did not have much to eat. Tap your toes to get the blood flowing, then, when you are ready, stand.”

“And then?”

He could have turned then, swung round to witness Hannibal’s reaction, but Will knew he’d see nothing Hannibal did not wish him to. Calm eyes and mouth schooled into a perfect mask, only painting his face with emotion to better blend in with the people around him. 

“Then, we shall walk to the truck I have in the garage. It is an ungainly machine, but practical for our purpose. You’ll sit in the passenger seat, make yourself comfortable, and then I shall sedate you for the journey.” His voice, like his meticulously manufactured visage, was even and cool. Whilst the words themselves offered little comfort, there was nothing in the intonation to alarm or provoke disbelieve. It was statement, simple and true, with no foothold for objection or discussion.

Anxiety spiked within him as he saw that there was no way out, that Hannibal had planned everything out with careful precision. He could, easily, react as an animal after the trap had sprung, throw himself futility against the bars, but he saw the pointlessness of such an action. Also, some small part of him, that had genuinely liked Hannibal and trusted him as a confidant and friend and had not properly caught up with recent revelations, did not want to disappoint the doctor with such vulgar behaviours.

Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, waiting for him to make a decision whether to acquiesce or resist. He breathed, once, twice, accessing his situation, and what little in the way of choice he had. He cleared his throat.

“It will be days before I am noticed to be missing. Jack might phone with a new case, but since you are the Ripper, that’s less likely…. Alana – Dr Bloom- might call, but she is less concerned with my mental health given my association with you. She trusts – trusted- you to look out for me.”

He looked forwards, across the dining table, but felt Hannibal shift behind him. 

“Your point?” Of course Hannibal had already realised that he had days to make his exit, hence the meal and unhurried attitude.

“My dogs. I want to make sure they have food and water. Maybe open the back door so they do not suffer in my absence. I’ll go willingly with you, make no fuss or attempt to escape, but I want to say goodbye to them and make sure they’ll be OK.”

He heard the deep inhalation drawn behind him, as Hannibal took in the request. He had not considered the fates of Will’s canine dependants. 

Will held his head high, steeling himself. What he proposed was a major change in Hannibal’s designs, and the extended time he would be awake and have potential to cause disruption not inconsiderable. The most logical recourse dictated that Hannibal would refuse, simply subdue Will with force and carry on as he originally intended.

The welfare of the dogs would not be a factor for the physiatrist, but Will hoped his offer of compliance might tempt the doctor to stray from his plan.

So far, everything Hannibal had done seemed to indicate that he cared for how Will saw him, working hard to offset the role of kidnapper with that of meal provider and dinner companion. Even if he did not understand Will’s attachment to his dogs, he might well cater to it to collect upon the unstated gratitude surely earned by such action.

“That… complicates things. I wish you had said as much before I cut you from the chair. There are items I still have to load into the truck, I had intended to finish while you were safely asleep.”

A hopeful spark glinted into life within, and William turned to see if Hannibal was as sincere as he sounded. 

He was turning the padlock over in his hands, frowning slightly. “Troublesome, but I suppose not impossible. You promise not to make me regret agreeing?”

Will nodded. In truth while this unplanned adaption offered a new range of options to attempt escape, he really did care for his collection of pets, and the thought of them whimpering, hungry and thirsty for days on end concerned him more than his own uncertain fate.

“Very well. I am going to allow you to stand, or sit on the edge of the chair, and if you are able, manipulate the handcuffs to the front. It must have been part of your training, do you remember the technique?”

He felt his head dip forward again, and remanded himself for nodding constantly like an eager puppy.

“In your own time then.” 

Trying hard not to let Hannibal’s unwavering stare put him off, Will shuffled forwards in the chair, and brought his cuffed hands under his rear, pulling them past his thighs. He then bent as far forward as he was able so that the metal rested against his ankles. It took several tries to step one foot back through the loop of metal, the position and his own lack of agility making him clumsy. He had to slip off his shoe to complete the task, but once one foot was through he could shift his weight and push the other back without as much difficulty.

He straightened slowly, his hands drawn into his lap and his whole body flexing into the new more comfortable position. When he received no further instruction from Hannibal, he pushed his foot back into the shoe, wriggling it back and forth till the edge stopped digging into his tendon.

“Bring your chair close into the table, hands up on the surface.”

With what sounded like an unnecessary amount of noise, unhelped by the return of the tremor, Will managed to shuffle the chair in, till the edge of the table pressed against his ribs. He absently wondered what the subsequent FBI investigation would make of the scraped hardwood, and whether they’d be able to tell how terrified he had been through the scuffs upon the floor. Doubtful. 

Hannibal had moved, stepping quickly to the kitchen and returning with more zip-ties. Will stayed very still as Hannibal knelt down by his side, not daring to look in case his eye contact prompted a change of mind. A hand nudged his feet apart, and fastened his feet to the chair legs. Will could not see, but he could feel the edge of plastic around his trouser legs. Then, once his feet were bound, there was the sound of more zip-ties being tightened. As he tensed his muscles experimentally, he decided that more zip-ties had been used to tie each chair leg to the stout legs supports of the table.

Hannibal rose to his feet, and with his fingertips, slid Will’s plate and glass away to a position his hand-cuffed hands would be able to reach, and not struggle with the lack of elbow room.

“You might as well help yourself to the rest while I finish packing. I’ll bring the dessert through as well, and try not to keep you waiting too long.”

Will did not trust himself to speak, and the thank you he wanted to say seemed premature till Hannibal fulfilled his side of the bargain. He gave another nod, eyes downcast, the perfect model of a well-behaved prisoner.

Dessert turned out to be a layered cream and ginger mouse, with lemon rind and caramelised sugar crystals sprinkled on top. 

“Just this once, I shall not insist you finish one course before starting on the next.” Hannibal said with a smirk, as he placed the sweet down. When he left, Will was struck how very quiet it was. The light indicated approaching dusk, which meant he’d been a ‘guest’ of Lecter for over 2 hours. Even with the diversion to Wolf Trap, Hannibal had at least 10 hours before the alarms would be raised, if not more.

He looked around for something he could use to leave clues for the police, but found he was very restricted by the table, too big and heavy to try moving, his hands limited in what they could reach. He could try to scrape a message into the table, but then Hannibal would certainly see. 

Also, he’d been devilishly clever, Will had no way of knowing where they were headed, so could not leave behind any leads of worth. He might be able to drop something from the truck to point them into Hannibal’s trail, but the doctor was not foolish enough to give him such a chance.

Resided to await better opportunity, Will picked at the salad, his bound hands making eating tricky but as a result each mouthful became more rewarding. He did not touch the dessert, in case Hannibal had tampered with it. Unlikely, Will reasoned, but he’d not risk it when he had so few resources available. It would only take a dusting of something to cloud his thoughts to make him much easier to manage, and Hannibal had too many advantages as it was.

He could hear Hannibal moving something heavy across the floor, the rumble resonating throughout the house. Will finished his meal, to a chorus of footsteps echoing back and forth from the garage. Then it was still, and Hannibal re-emerged in the doorway.

“Are you ready?” he asked, coming close and looking at the untouched moose. He made no comment.

“Yes.” Will replied, starting to lift his toes so he’d not suffer light-headedness when he stood.

Hannibal cut the ties with the same knife as before, and pulled Will’s chair out for him to stand.

His legs held strong, much to Will’s relief, and he started to walk forwards, in the direction of the garage, guided by Hannibal. He could feel how close the Ripper was following at his back, and made efforts to keep his steps even and predictable to reserve what distance Hannibal allowed.

Even with the garage door wide open to the clear night air, the garage was dimly lit. Hannibal seemed to prefer only modest lighting in his home, Will supposed that the darkness could hold no horror for someone like him.

The truck dominating the space seemed out of place, garishly red. It seemed unlike anything Hannibal would bother to possess, which, Will supposed, was entirely the point. The engine would be powerful, under the bonnet, and Will got the impression that four fat tires with deep treads were intended for colder climates. 

Angular edges of stacked trunks dominated the back seat; apparently Hannibal had much he deemed irreplaceable.

Hannibal held the door of the passenger seat open for Will, and he had to hop to make the elevated seat. Throughout, Hannibal’s eyes were sharp, focused, watching for any attempt to break loose.

As a reminder, or perhaps a test of his mettle, a short syringe was sat inside the dip of the dashboard, capped and filled with a cloudy liquid. The sedative.

Will swallowed, and did his best to ignore it, as Hannibal circled round and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. He gestured to the seatbelt.

The handcuffs made positioning the seatbelt awkward, and Will had to rest his hands and elbows over the strap that should have slid up across his body. Hannibal affixed his own, clicking it into place with a finality Will did not like.

“I hope you won’t think me rude, but the engine makes a quite appalling noise, and I’d like to attempt to temper it with music.” 

Twisting the ignition, Hannibal reached with his other hand and clicked the stereo to life, strains of classical music filling the space around them.

Hannibal drove from his home without once looking back.

Distracted, by the music, by his own cascade of thoughts and fears, it took William an embarrassingly long time for a police consultant to realise that there was a second sound, to counter the soft grumble of the engine. Tipping his head, he tried to locate the source and found it came from behind the driver’s seat, wedged under the trunks.

Weighting up what Hannibal would allow, he turned his head to see. It looked like a generator, whirling away in the back. The fumes had to be channelled outside, so as not to choke the pair of them, but he could not see where the exhaust was, nor what the generator was powering. There were leads, trailing to the back of his own chair, and he leant forwards to see. 

“You did promise not to raise a fuss.” Hannibal reminded, as Will caught sight of a smooth white lid.

“Fuck…” Will breathed, as he realised there was a freezer behind him, and he could easily guess what it must contain that Hannibal would take such measures. A chill that had nothing to do with temperature ran down his spine. He slumped in the chair, letting his head hit the back of the headrest with more force than he intended.

Their speed did not slow, but the long stretch of road meant Hannibal could flick his eyes over Will, monitoring how this new information would affect his passenger’s demeanour.

Will was not horrified. He knew it should be, but somehow through the course of his discovery of the Ripper’s identity, and the sequence of events that followed, he was too tired to summon moral outrage. If Hannibal had been cruel, or threatening, it would be easier to hate him, easier to shout and swear and fight. Gentle touches and words not raised about normal speaking volume, and Will did not know what to think. 

He wondered if this was how Stockholm Syndrome started. 

Neither said anything more, strings and brass and woodwind harmonising instead. Will sat quietly, his hands in his lap as the scenery became increasingly familiar as they approached his home.


	3. Chapter 3

“You will stay outside. I’ll open the door, wedge it open so they have shelter but also freedom to forage. I shall fill their bowls. You may call the dogs, softly, and pet them, but you are not to enter the house.”

Will nodded, expecting such terms. Hannibal had learnt well the techniques used by the police, and even though Will’s skills were particularly finely honed, there were others perfectly capable of picking up on any clue will left inside. Outside, and any trace of him would be eroded by the weather.

Gravel crunched like bones under the weight of the truck as they pulled in. 

“You realise of course, that this will confuse and hinder the investigation.” Hannibal commented as the truck rolled to a stop, “If there are signs that you fed the dogs, and left the door open, it will muddle the sequence of events and timeline. Perhaps even delay the alarm being raised when you cannot be contacted.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you still wish to do this?” Hannibal sounded curious, his voice inviting reply.

“Mm-hm.” 

Amusement played around the corners of his mouth, as Hannibal turned off the engine and pocketed the truck keys, leaving the headlights on. He pulled out his key-wallet, and showed Will that he still held the copy that would allow him access to the back door. The sight caused Will to wince.

“You may walk out in front of the truck. Do not move further than two paces away.”

That handcuffed, Will could not hope to outrun Hannibal, even through territory familiar to him, did not have to be stated. Both men understood who had the upper hand.

Hannibal exited the truck, picking his way across the gravel and grass towards the house, and Will was struck that this was probably the last time he’d see his home. Unlike Hannibal, he found it hard to leave behind his place of sanctuary, a pang for comfort sorely needed gripping at his heart.

He clambered down, to see his homestead unimpeded by tinted windscreen. As he stood on the crunching stone, the windows lit up from within, indicating that had Hannibal entered. The clatter and soft woofing of the occupants, excited by the visitor, sounded out from the back.

“Hey.” He called quietly, hoping to draw his dogs to him, and away from the Ripper. Winston heard him first, after rushing into the night. Others followed suit.

With tears in his eyes, Will crouched down and let his dogs greet him.

****

Inside, Hannibal coldly noted the signs that Will had neither been sleep nor eating well. Discarded ready meals with half eaten remains crusted over, and blankets nested up by the bookshelf and hobby bench detailed the impact the stress of the job had been wrecking on Will’s well-being. 

He knew he ought to have ceased causing such anxiety, his culinary hobby and elusiveness devouring more and more of Will’s time and mental stability, but watching Will unpick his crime scenes and remark upon the creativity of his endeavours had been a heady thrill, and hard to forsake. More and more he found himself staging elaborate displays, purely to hear what the empath had to say about them. A strange courtship, to be sure, but Will’s dedication to his work complimented Hannibal’s craving to be recognised as the genius he knew himself to be. Will was an audience worthy of performing for, able to appreciate his artistry.

One of the dogs was sleeping still, even as he heard the others outside fuss about their master. He walked over, nudging the beast with his shoe point. It stirred, groggy, and Hannibal repeated the action, urging it towards the door.

“Will will not want to leave without saying something sentimental to you, so you’d best be off.”

It tottered out, after assessing that Hannibal had no treats this time, and would continue the pestering till it moved in the correct direction.

Satisfied that the dog would not have to be carried or kicked out the door, Hannibal strode into the kitchen area. Dishes unwashed were piled upon countertops far too cluttered to cook, and the sight made him despair that Will had managed to sustain himself for so long. He flicked dingy curtains to one side, checking out the window that Will was behaving himself and not about to attempt anything brave or foolhardy. 

Surrounded by slobbering dogs, Will’s head was bowed, as if hiding his face from the oblivious animals. They could not tell his heartbreak, but instead revelled in the attention.

Hannibal though, saw the way he’d lift his glasses and rub at his eyes. How, illuminated by the truck’s headlights, he sat with arms outstretched, and fingers gripping at fur.

Bemused that the mangy mutts could matter so much as to make a grown man cry, Hannibal lifted out the immense bag of dried dog food. He cut it open, spilling the contents across the floor. He turned, or rather, forced, the tap, and filled each dog bowl he could find with water, placing them down and then scrubbing his hands. He wiped down all he had touched with a dishcloth that belonged in the trash, not the kitchen, but dutifully replaced it where he’d found it by the sink.

Satisfied, he pulled a chair across the back room to keep the door for shutting, scattering the papers resting on the cushions but not bothering to retrieve them. The dogs would be blamed for the disruption, and he was eager to continue with their journey. They had many miles to cover before he could rest. 

Will was sobbing openly as he walked over, dogs licking his face and William letting them. The slow sleepy one had joined the rabble. Stern, he waved off an inquisitive mongrel that nosed at him, eyes staring it down till it backed off.

“Will. Time to go.”

The headlights smeared light across his blurred vision, but there was no mistaking Hannibal’s voice. He clutched at the nearest dog, an older half-breed corgi that was a recent addition, but he feared would not last the winter.

“Please, just a moment more.”

He half expected Hannibal to refuse, the doctor had never made any pretence in fondness for his dogs. At first William had wondered that Hannibal the psychiatrist did not consider the strays with their mixed heritage to be worth keeping, that perhaps a pedigree would appeal to Lecter’s sense of ascetics and appreciation, but as time went on, he found that Hannibal only tolerated animals, and no more.

Never cruel, that would be too much of a giveaway, but neither was Hannibal ever kind.

“All right, take your time. I shall wait for you in the truck.”

The words stunned him, and Will turned, but tears made it hard to see Hannibal’s expression, if he wore one at all. The truck door clicked closed beyond he could reply, and so he turned back away from the glare of headlights.

He curled, holding dogs against them for as long as they would allow, bring heads close to his and repeatedly stroking against their heads and necks, trying to imprint the memory of warm, soft fur into his fingertips.

****

Will, brightly illuminated by twin full beam lights, was beautiful. His cheeks shone with tears, and his mouth thin and unreadable. The shadow he cast behind him was massive and deep, like the demons of his mind come to collect. 

Hannibal marvelled at the puzzle of the man. An empath who did his best not to feel, who shut down his gift except for peering into the worst depravities. Will would occasionally slip into mimicking a vocal accent, or mirror a gesture when conversing, but Hannibal believed this was entirely unintentional, and suspected that Will was not even aware that he did so.

Whereas Hannibal himself had to study and practice in order to camouflage himself in human idiosyncrasies, Will naturally could adapt himself to put others at ease. He could, but bizarrely didn’t, preferring to keep himself separate, to preserve his sense of self by isolation and distance. The man could see truth if he was only brave enough to look, but after being exposed to the worst humanity had to offer at Crawford’s insistence, he shied away from the harsh hard truths of the people around him. Hannibal did not know whether Will’s defences had grown to protect against his own presence, or to contain the unravelling muddle of his mind as it assimilated more and more blood coated memories. A fascinating dynamic, and one which Hannibal looked forward to observing in depth.

It took ten full minutes before Will was apparently finished with the dogs, though Hannibal guessed that he’d have stayed longer if he did not fear incurring some sort of penalty for lingering too long. He could have corrected him, allowing him to sate his sentiments, but he had grown tired of the dogs, their tails wagging and seemingly unable to keep still, fluttering like moths around Will’s shining beacon.

Will walked over, and opened the passenger door, clambering up the steep step to sit by Hannibal’s side. The dogs tried to follow, paws and heads in his laps, begging, and it took Will a while to convince them to stay, his voice cracking as he commanded them back. He pulled the door gently shut, so as not to injure them, then pulled the seatbelt across, fumbling with the mechanism. Hannibal took the buckle from Will’s hands, Will letting go almost immediately so their fingers would not touch. Will returned his hands to his lap as the belt snapped down, securing him, keeping him safe. 

There was dog hair caught in the metal of the cuffs, and a redness creeping around his pale wrists. He would have to dress the tender skin to prevent infection and promote healing, Hannibal thought to himself, but only once Will was asleep. 

He handed William a handkerchief for his eyes.

“Thank you.” Will whispered, as if hoping Hannibal would not hear.

There was nothing Hannibal felt he could say without reminding Will that he was in essence, thanking his capturer, so just nodded. He started to reach for the syringe.

Will stirred in the seat, eyes red and not yet dry. He did not make direct eye contact, but did turn to face Hannibal.

“One last thing- I have to ask. Why are you doing this?”

“You fascinate me. You are an empath; a true empath, and it is so very rare to find one still sane.”

Hannibal closed his hand over Will’s wrist, and looked at Will’s face, even if their gaze did not meet.

Will laughed then, whether exhaustion or humour or hysteria, Hannibal could not tell. Most likely a blend of all three. Hannibal collected the syringe in readiness of an outburst, and twisted Will’s wrist to expose the veins. Will did not resist.

“I’m not sure kidnapping is going to be beneficial to my sanity….” 

He did not bother with the normal reassurances that it would only sting a little, Will could well see and feel the needle touch against his skin. There was only a slight flinch, as sharp tip pierced the flesh and pumped the sedative into his blood, and Hannibal was quietly impressed at Will’s self-control.

“We shall see.” Hannibal said, as Will’s eyelids fluttered shut. He pulled a pillow from behind him, and propped it behind Will’s head to protect him from the unforgiving glass of the far window. Slumped, breathing starting to deepen and slow, the tension around Will’s eyes slipped away. The sedative had been carefully measured, taking into account Will’s estimated body weight. The drug worked fast, spurred by delivery direct into the blood, and it would be hours before Will would wake again.

Hannibal considered for a moment keeping Will just like this, at peace and pliant, but the long term medication implications were risky and distasteful, and whilst he would enjoy being able to touch and caress without protest, he would soon miss Will’s voice and will.

He satisfied himself by using a fresh handkerchief to wipe the stink of dog saliva from Will’s face, and then place a soft kiss to an unresisting pair of warm lips.

Fastening his belt, he turned on the engine, and for Will’s sake drove slow enough that the bustling canines got clear of the wheels. 

One of the more loyal, perhaps more perceptive, elected to run alongside the truck, barking occasionally, trying to rouse his master. Hannibal urged the engine onwards, and soon outpaced the mutt, watching in the rear view mirror as it became distant and then disappeared from view altogether, still desperately running to catch up. 

Will did not stir.


	4. Chapter 4

Wakefulness came slow, and Will had to fight to not drift back into the haze of drugged stupor. The darkness was warm, comfortable, and almost certainly preferable to the anxiety and fear that awaited him upon waking.

He forced his eyes open, and tried to move. He was seating upright, pillowed and seatbelt fastened across him. Still in the truck, though from what little he could see beyond the dashboard they were inside.

His head felt heavy, his muscles weak and unresponsive, and his hands held at a strange angle to his side. With a couple of feeble pulls, he found that at some point during his sedation the handcuffs had been unlocked, threaded through the handle of the door, then refastened round his wrists. Wrists which were now also encircled by neatly tied bandages, and his wristwatch was missing, probably to accommodate the bandages and handcuffs. Hannibal had evidently been busy whilst he was sleeping.

He took stock, and found that save for his wrists, and the hindrance of the seatbelt, he was free to move. He tested the door, and it was only the seatbelt that saved him spilling out onto the garage floor as he failed to shift his weight in time when the door swung away from him. Hanging, the belt tight across his ribs, he tried to pull himself and the door back, but found the pillow had slipped loose and blocked the way. He shunted it free with his head, and finally shut the door, breathing heavily and cursing his stupidity.

He did, however, get a taste of the air, its slight stale odour telling him that he was somewhere inside that had not been in recent use. 

Sighing, he shifted, and saw a small piece of paper taped to the windscreen front of him.

**Sit tight, I shall check on you from time to time as I ready the house for habitation. Hannibal.**

He swivelled, first away from the door, but when he found his movements too limited, towards, and saw that the trunks, and generator and freezer, had been removed.

He wondered how long he had been out for, and how deeply he must have been asleep to miss the noise of shifting a freezer of that size. With no hint of the outside world to guide his time sense, and the digital clock on the dashboard dark, Will turned inward for clues.

His limbs were stiff, indicating that he’d been in the same position for hours, and his bladder, while not demanding immediate attention, was an uncomfortable presence. Mouth dry, and eyes sticky with the residue of tears long since evaporated, Will estimated that last least six hours had passed. He looked to the inside of his forearm, and with a growing sense of detachment saw not one, but two pinpricks upon the skin. 

Two injections then, so either a weak sedative that had to be administered twice, or he had been out for a much longer stretch of time. A lighter dose would not have knocked him out so quickly, nor held him unconscious while Hannibal dragged the freezer from the back of the truck, and though he had no way of knowing how much fuel had been burnt to get him to his present location (or whether Hannibal had had to stop for gas), Will could guess that he was many miles from Baltimore.

He wondered if he was even still in the country, nevermind his home state.

There was a sudden increase in the light levels, as a door slowly opened and spilled light into the interior of the garage, and Will was tempted to settle back down and feign sleep. He decided against it, not only because his pillow was currently outside the truck, but also he did not think he would be able to fool the doctor. 

Lecter crossed over to the drivers’ side, peering in the window, and, when he saw William blinking back at him, gave a pleased smile showing teeth.

“Ah. Glad to see you back in the land of the living. How are you feeling?” he asked, once the door had been opened and he had a moment to observe Will’s state. 

“Considering I’ve been drugged and kidnapped? Just peachy.” Will’s voice rasped, and he felt his throat crack in sympathy.

The answering chuckle was rich and dark, and Hannibal reached forwards. Will drew back, but did not relax as Hannibal’s fingers came to stop at the seatbelt, releasing the catch. Whirling, the belt slide back across his shoulder, as Hannibal climbed down and crossed across the front of the truck towards the passenger’s seat.

He opened the door slowly, allowing Will to adjust his weight to keep from falling forward. 

“Step out of the vehicle please.” The parody of the line, usually delivered by the law enforcement, seemed in jest. Will found his humour lacking.

Mustering what dignity he could, Will did not cower, instead taking a step he hoped would hold his weight. That Hannibal would have to catch him if he fell proved powerful incentive, and he followed the door as it was swung wide.

“Let’s get you loose of that beastly truck, and I shall show you to your room. The grand tour can wait till I’ve finished unpacking and you have had chance to sleep off the sedative.”

Lecter came in close to his side, and Will stood very still, trying not to sway. From a jacket pocket, he produced a small glinting key, which he carefully slotted into the handcuffs. The metal relaxed, and Will allowed Hannibal to remove them from the door handle. When his second hand was also freed, he jerked his head upwards in confusion.

“You would rather I keep you manacled?”

“No.” Will rushed his reply, but still did not understand why Hannibal would suddenly forsake the restraints, when they had been so carefully adhered to so far. Sharp eyes watched his puzzlement. He swallowed, and, when his dry tongue caught against the roof of his mouth, swallowed again.

Hannibal shifted his gaze to the open doorway, two concrete steps leading into what Will assumed to be the rest of the house. He hesitated, wondering if his freed wrists were some sort of test or trick.

A tongue that was not as parched and sluggish as his own clicked against teeth, as Hannibal regarding him. “I am trusting that you have intelligence enough not to attempt anything when you do not know the layout, and I have obvious advantage. And even if you were to try and run in a random direction in a desperate bid for freedom, the effect of the sedative will linger for some time in your system, and I doubt you’d get very far.”

Will wondered if the words were meant to have such a demoralising effect, or if it was his own realisation that Hannibal was absolutely right that sapped his strength. The change in his body language must have been obvious, for Hannibal softened his voice.

“Come along now, I think you’ll find it not as bad as you imagine.”

Will walked, allowing Hannibal to support him by the elbow. The touch was light, and while Will supposed it could tighten and press fingers into nerves, the contact seemed intended as a guiding influence than a threat.

He was not sure what he expected, dank grey walls of a basement dungeon, or white sterile wall-to-wall tiles and drains splattered with fresh blood, reminiscent of a grizzly operating theatre. The marigold-white of a model showroom, clean and bare, seemed just as fantastical as his vivid and morbid imagination.

“It is plain, I’ll admit, and frightfully sparse, but as I said, I’ve yet to finish unpacking. And the décor was of less importance than… other things.” Hannibal’s tone betrayed irritation that his surroundings were not up to his lofty standards, whilst Will continue to marvel at scene straight out of an estate agents portfolio. 

He was so used to Hannibal imposing his mark on the things around him, his powerful presence usually enough to colour a room, seeing him at odds with the ‘brand-new-out-the-box’ scheme made Will wonder if he was not still asleep and dreaming.

The floor was wooden, and of a solid quality Will could recognise as unusual, and he caught sight of shavings gathered at the skirting boards, suggesting that the rich golden-coffee slates had been installed after Hannibal had purchased the property.

The soft light from the windows indicated that the sun was setting, or rising, and Will felt renewed concern that he could not tell which. Timekeeping had become a comforting routine; he’d check his wristwatch whenever stressed to ground himself, and now deprived of his habit, he felt anxiety gnaw at him. He glanced around for a clock to help him get better bearing on the time, but the walls were clear.

He half expected Hannibal to pick up on his unease, and supply the time as he had done in the past to reassure, but Hannibal remained silent. Will had to remind himself that the doctor was a psychiatrist, not psychic. The thought was somewhat consoling.

Around the corner, and there were two doors, side by side, but only one of them open. Both had some sort of electronic number-pad to the side, and Hannibal gestured to the one on the right. 

“Your room. Complete with an en suite bathroom, and I took the liberty of stocking it with clothes and toiletries and suchlike. Do let me know if I neglected anything.”

Will took a step forwards, cautiously curious, and saw a modest bedroom, a made up single bed in muted blue and greens with a desk opposite, a chest of drawers and small windowsill. There was a trunk opened on top the desk, with brand-new bottles of his regular shampoo and shower wash, toothpaste and soap, nestled on top of towels and a selection of plaid shirts. He had no doubt that the shirts would be in his size, and fit perfectly, even if they looked far more expensive than his usual clothing.

“I shall give you a chance to settle in and rest, and call on you when supper is ready.” Something of a dismissal in Hannibal’s words caused Will to jolt from the feeling of unease that Hannibal knew his preferences to such detail.

“Wait, WAIT!” Will spun round too slow to see the door pulled shut and something distinctly ominous click into place. He yanked at the handle, and felt no give at all in the solid door, realising too late that Hannibal had locked him in. No keyhole, so Will guessed that the keypad outside was the only way to release the door, and he on the wrong side of the wall.

He could have blamed the sedative for slowing his thinking, or the shock at Hannibal’s disturbing accuracy in obtaining bathroom supplies, but there was no forgiving himself for allowing his guard to fall when he _knew_ what Hannibal was. He was lucky not to be dead for his lapse, though he did not feel particularly fortuitous.

He sank against the door, exhausted, but too wrung out to weep. Or perhaps he was simply too dry for tears.

Given the excessive attention to detail, the two bottles of spring water by the bedside table did not surprise him. That they were invitingly cool to the touch, condensation collecting like dew on the plastic surface, did not deter him from drying the nearest with the hem of his shirt, then shaking it vigorously to see if it leaked; a sign it had been tampered with. The notion of introducing more drugs to his system overrode his thirst, and he brought the bottle to the light to check over the seal.

Satisfied the water was safe, he cracked it open and drank greedily, the cool liquid a kindness to his parched throat and mouth.

The water was quickly finished, and he turned to grasp the other, again subjecting it to the same checks. He opened it, and sipped, and took in his surroundings.

Unexpectedly, there was a window to his cell, admittedly on the small side and fitted with safety glass, but it did give Will the first glimpse of what was apparently to be his new place of residence.

Thick fir trees dominated the view, encroaching all the way to the borders of the untended lawn, with needles so deep green they looked black in the dim sunlight. No fences separated garden from wild woodland, bark chips scattered across the grass, giving the impression that the forest was claiming back the land.

Inside, it felt like a hotel room, generic and bland. The chest of drawers, he noted, was sturdy and could probably be pulled to blockade the door, but he checked the hinges and found to his disappointment (but not surprise) that the door opened outwards. 

He moved to the bathroom, and found it clean and white and tiled and entirely unremarkable. Matching shower and sink, stark in gleaming white dominated the space, and he briefly wondered if he’d not have been better drinking from the tap.

A yawn stole over him, and once his jaw had snapped back he glared at the water, fearing it had been spiked with something. He had to fight back the surge of panic, rational reasoning suggesting that the sedative still swam in his veins, and the more likely culprit.

There was absence of anything in the rooms that he could utilise as a weapon, save for his own wits. He walked to the bed, deciding that he could not possibly plan while he was so addled by the drugs.

His clothes were stale, edging towards fragrant, but he disliked the idea of striping off to sleep when he would be so vulnerable, and wearing something that Hannibal had brought for him even less. 

Stifling another yawn, he twisted the glasses from his face. He kicked off his shoes, and swung his legs round onto the bed, hoping the sleep would clear the haze from his mind, that he’d be alert and ready when Hannibal returned.

***

The knocking at the door was insistent, steady sets of five in regular rhythm. Will turned his head, his interrupted sleep and unfamiliar surroundings disorientating him. When he recalled where he was, and who was most likely behind the door, a start of adrenaline jolted through his body, and he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes whilst groping for his glasses with the other.

The room was dark, night filling the window with black. Eyes still adjusting from sleep, he saw that the door was unopened, only a sliver of light under the door visible.

The knocking repeated.

“Yeah?” He had to force his voice to sound above a whisper, that it might be heard past the door.

“I thought I would let you know that dinner is just about ready.” Even though Hannibal spoke in his usual cultured tones, the door remained shut, and Will gathered himself to stand. He crossed the floor in his socks, and tested the door, finding it opened smoothly under his hand.

The light shocked his eyes, and it took him a moment for his vision to regain focus. Hannibal stood on the other side, immaculate in shirt and tie and waist coat, shades of dark grey and burgundy. He smiled warmly on seeing Will, eyes flicking down to the threadbare socks almost too quick to notice, and his expression neutral. 

His tone though, betrayed his distaste for Will’s dishevelled appearance, as if he hoped for better.  
“There is however, time for you to freshen up.” 

Will straightened, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair in attempts to smooth it. The notion of dressing up for his kidnapper grated against his temper, and though everything in his training about hostage and kidnap situations dictated that he ought to play along in interest of surviving and perhaps lulling his capturer into complacency, he found he did not want to let Hannibal so easily govern his actions.

“No thanks, I’m good.” He said, with more challenge than he would have liked.

He anticipated that Hannibal would shut the door again; that he’d be denied food for his insolence. It was standard practice for a kidnapper to encourage cooperation through restriction of sustenance. Given Hannibal’s eating habits and that he knew he’d brought ‘supplies’ with them, he felt that wasn’t such a loss, but it did strike him that he might have to pick his battles if he was not to starve.

When Hannibal merely shrugged, leaving the door open, he wondered if his training was going to be of any use to him, since the Ripper seemed so determined to defy all expectations. The loss of protocol made him uneasy, he felt adrift on a sea that while it seemed calm, could turn stormy and deadly at any moment.

He was about to step through, and make a run for the front door, lack of shoes be damned when Hannibal held up a hand to stop him.

“One moment please.” His hand pulled a thick plastic-looking strap from his pocket and held it out to Will. “Here. Fasten this around your ankle, it doesn’t matter which one, but it must click shut.”

It was heavier than it looked, and as Will examined it, he could guess its function. Solid plastic, with an enforced section in the middle, and what looked like a locking system designed to withstand meddling; a tracking anklet.

He lowered his hands, scowling at the device. “And if I refuse?”

Hannibal tipped his head, “This is unfortunately a stipulation I must insist on if you are to be given free reign, as-it-were. Should you refuse I shall have to keep you locked in your room. I shall bring meals to you, and books and CDs to occupy your time, but since the table is already set I’d rather hoped that you would not be stubborn on the matter.”

The idea of ‘free reign’ held all manner of possibilities and potential, and though Will knew that the device would be as tamper proof as possible, he stood much better chance at eventual escape if he was not confined to the bare little bedroom.

He made a show of huffing in irritation as he crouched down, trying to hide his hope as he fumbled with the ends of the strap. 

“It must click shut, so I know the lock has been engaged.”

Snapping the thing closed around his ankle, Will looked up at Hannibal, brows raised in question that the Ripper was satisfied. The returning nod was light, lacking in triumph, and more like the quiet appreciation for some small chore or task, unpleasant but necessary.

“Shall we then?” Hannibal gestured into the rest of the house, and began walking, leaving Will free to follow at his own pace.

The anklet rubbed, and he felt the unfamiliar weight of it as he took a couple of steps into the wider area of the house, taking in the details now his head felt clearer.

Without lightshades, the naked light bulbs cast unadulterated light, making all edges and angles sharp and harsh. The bookshelf was devoid of books. Hannibal’s additions, a rug here, an ornamental mask there, stood out, stark in their deviance from the off-white walls. 

Most rooms seemed open plan, with wide arches instead of doorways, save for the doors with keypad locks. He saw a simple front door, paned with glass, but dissuaded himself from thoughts of rushing to try and break out. Plunging out into the night, when he’d be so easily tracked thanks to his new accessory, seemed unwise. Also, he hated to admit, he was hungry.

Smells of roasting potatoes, and rich meat gravy, led him to the kitchen, where Hannibal was pulling trays from the oven. He was surrounded by dark marble countertops and pots and pans and knives already placed where they could be reached without excessive effort. A large fridge hummed in the corner, well away from the heavy cast iron oven. Herbs on the windowsill, above a gleaming duel sink, and of all the house, this room seemed most complete.

Across, at a small wooden dining table, napkins and cutlery was set out for two, wine glasses already filled with ruby red wine.

“Please, take a seat.” Hannibal said without looking up from where he was scooping golden potatoes onto plates. 

Will sat facing the kitchen, that he could watch Hannibal, guarding against the addition of anything suspicious to his plate. The elegant movements, swift and sure, as he composed each meal had always fascinated Will, and he grudgingly accepted that his admiration of Hannibal’s artistry had not diminished, even in the light of what he was… or what he had served in the past.

The freezer, Will was relieved to note, was not in the kitchen. He did not think he’d be able to stomach anything when in proximity to it, and its gruesome contents.

When the meal arrived, set in front of him with a flourish, it was to Hannibal’s usual standard of excellence. Potatoes crisp and shining golden sat by purple shoots of broccoli, thin but not droopy, arranged in a neat little stack, whilst the meat of the dish hissed softly, a testament to the closeness of the hob and deftness of the chef.

Will found the smells enticing his empty gut into an unsightly gurgle, but the sight of the crisped skin of duck breast - what he desperately hoped was duck breast- turned his stomach.

He glanced across to Hannibal, who had taken his seat and seemed to be waiting for his ‘guest’ to take first bite. He tentatively jabbed at the meat with his fork, hoping to overcome his churning gut, but as he pierced the juicy flesh, so soft it practically fell from the bone, he found his appetite evaporated.

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal’s own fork and knife were still.

“I… I don’t think I can eat this.” Gone was the challenge in his voice, as if departed along with his appetite.

“It is duck confit, thigh of duck slow cooked and preserved in fat. It is very succulent.” Hannibal paused, as if only just then realising what the issue might be, “I can show you the packaging if it will reassure you.”

The meat on his plate was as Hannibal said, Will was sure. The bones were small and thin, and the skin had the plucked texture of fowl, but that did not stop him feeling nauseous, knowing that a bare few days pervious and he’d have dinned unwittingly on whatever Hannibal had served, whether it was duck or… something more sinister.

He shook his head. It was not the first time he found the fare not suited to him; Hannibal’s tastes ran to the rich and decadent, and Will often found the flavour either too subtle for his uncultured palate, or too complex to fully enjoy, or too heavy, leaving him feeling uncomfortably full. Politeness had always decreed that he eat some of what was given, even if he had left the majority of the meal in pieces on his plate like a wreckage. 

He felt strangely apologetic, that he could not even take a bite, when it was clear Hannibal had brought the foodstuffs from home so that he could prepare a proper meal after the move. 

Thankfully, Hannibal did not look offended. Will fancied he might have possibly been disappointed, but the man’s eyes were hard to read, moreso now that Will realised that he did not know the doctor nearly as well as he had thought. 

Hannibal started to get up, presumably to arrange an alternative for Will. Will found himself also rising, waving Hannibal from collecting the plates.

“No no, you enjoy your meal. I’ll just fix something up from the…..” he faltered, suddenly very aware that they were not friends, that this was no cosy gathering over food and wine, where he’d take turn at clearing the dishes, as he had done before when dining at Hannibal’s. He wasn’t even sure if he would be _allowed_ to rummage through the kitchen in search of his own dinner.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed with amusement at Will’s slip into old habits. His lips curled, and he picked up his fork.

“Thank you Will, that is much appreciated. I’m not sure what you’ll find suitable to eat. I had intended to go shopping tomorrow, so the cupboards are a bit bare I’m afraid.”

Will walked quickly, retreating to try and gather his wits. He watched as Hannibal lifted a mouthful of dripping duck into his mouth, and ate with relish the succulent flesh. 

Will Graham shuddered.

To distract himself, he turned his attention to the kitchen. The first cupboard he tried was fairly well stocked with non-perishable items; various tins and jars, some of which he recognised, like tins of plum tomatoes, others which he had no idea what they might contain; the labels in French and the pictures unhelpfully obscure. Hopeful, he looked to see if there might also be some dried pasta, or rice - something within his ability to prepare- but he found nothing that met his needs.

Next, the fridge, and there was milk and eggs and butter, and a bottle of white wine standing sentry in the spacious depths, and a collection of bottled water, and nothing else.

He looked over to Hannibal, who was steadily working his way through the meal, interjecting his forkfuls with sips of the wine.

“Can I use the eggs?”

“I had intended to use them in the morning, but we have plenty. Leave at least four please.”

He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he took his plate back, and cut the broccoli and potatoes into smaller pieces, setting them in a pan with some butter and salt. He left those potatoes that had come into contact with the duck behind, then moved the plate from his line of sight, unable to bring himself to bin the meat. Knowing Hannibal it would be ludicrously expensive, and it seemed a pity to waste it.

Finding a suitable bowl to mix the eggs in took him several attempts at guessing which cupboards might hold the equipment he required, but eventually he pulled a glass jug out. The eggs took several taps to break into the shell; they were not the thin and fragile type Will was used to. It took surprising force to get the eggs to give up their innards. With a fork he punctured the golden yolks, whisking lightly. 

He poured the eggs over the broccoli and potato, and as he waited for the egg to cook through, found himself marvelling at how calm he was, how he could almost pretend that this was normal. Survival instinct, he supposed, or more worryingly, denial of his situation. 

Hannibal was halfway through his plate, unrushed in his consumption, his head lifting towards the kitchen to watch Will, curious, collected. He smiled as Will met his eyes, and quirked his head to the side as if to ask if he needed assistance. Will had to catch himself from smiling back.

Breath sticking in his throat, Will shook his head and quickly looked down to the pan, pretended that his attention was focussed on testing the edge of the improvised frittata to see if it’d be easy to lift and turn over.

_He is the Chesapeake ripper._ he reminded himself. _He has killed people. He has eaten human flesh. He is a monster._ He took a breath, finding the air flowed raggedly into his lungs, _He is not my friend._

The morbid mantra helped, reassured him that he was aware of who he was about to dine with, and not so far into denial that he risked forgetting the danger of his circumstances.

The frittata broke apart as he turned it, and the resulting mess on his plate seemed an insult to the careful laid table. He was tempted to eat over the kitchen sink, as was his habit when in a rush when in his own home, rather than join the Chesapeake Ripper. He placed the plate down on the table regardless, refusing to show such fear, and dug his fork in and started to eat. 

It was good, despite how it looked, and filling.

Once he had taken a few bites, and felt the rush of anxiety of coming to where Hannibal was sitting start to dissipate, he glanced up. Hannibal’s face was a picture of contentment and calm, his smile was usually so fleeting and rare fixed into place. It softened him, he looked less intimidating, less intense, and Will suspected the expression might be genuine.

_He is a monster._ he repeated in his mind, his own face feeling tight, with his jaw clenched and his eyes nervously darting from side to side, refusing to allow himself to relax lest it dull his senses to the danger.

“Will you try the wine? It is a Pinot Noir, nearing the peak of its flavour. I kept it here, waiting. It was so much easier to resist the temptation to break the seal and taste too soon when it was not nearby.”

Hannibal’s’ tone was jovial, and there was nothing to suggest demand in his words. Will could guess though, that the wine would be a vintage of mark that Hannibal would store it in his secret second house, and that he would be expected to drink and be thankful for the wine. 

He looked at the glass, the smell of rich cherry and smoke lingering despite the aroma of eggs and fried potatoes layered over, and shook his head. “I doubt it’d go with my eggs. I’ll pass.”

It was a deliberate move to test boundaries, and whilst Will was fairly certain Hannibal would see through him in a heartbeat, for sake of his nerves he had to know how hard Hannibal was willing to push to get his way. Also, by refusing a wine that Hannibal deemed important, he’d quickly find out if he could act and speak without worrying that the slightest wrong move would provoke the Ripper to attack.

He was aware the risks; not only of tempting the violent end he was trying to avoid, but also reminding the doctor that Will was intelligent and capable in his own right. Harder to court complacency while at the same time showcasing why the FBI hired him, but he felt it necessary. He could not hope to retain his wits if he was constant afraid; walking upon explosive eggshells.

Hannibal took up his own glass, swirling the dark ruby liquid. He took a sip, and shrugged.

Whether he was amused or apathetic, disappointed or seconds from flying into a murderous rage, Will could not tell, as Hannibal’s eyes kept all their secrets.

In some ways it was a relief to know that Hannibal would not demand complete obedience from him, but it left him wondering what the rules of this game were. Hannibal gave no clue as to what was expected of him, of what his end goals might be, which made it near impossible for Will to tailor his responses and actions to attempt to appease the cannibal, till time and opportunity presented for escape or alerting the outside world to their location.

He lifted his wrist, meaning to mark the time to prevent the building anxiety from overwhelming him, but there was a bandage instead of his watch. The cuff round his ankle seemed to only extenuate the missing timepiece. He clenched his fist, and set about systematically eating the rest of his meal, the food flavourless as unease dominated his senses.

“I regret that there is no dessert tonight, but perhaps you would like to finish your meal with a small coffee, or brandy? I believe I have a rather pleasant bottle of Pomace X.O from France, should you wish it.”

Will finished the last bite, swallowing it down with effort, and gave Hannibal a long look of incredulousness. “No thank you.” Then, when he could not contain himself, “What kind of person offers their prisoner brandy anyway?”

Hannibal set his hands on the table, flexing the fingers against the wood, “As I said, you are not a prisoner. You are my house guest.” He spoke calmly and clearly, as if clarifying some piece of information Will had not properly understood. 

Will bristled.

“Do you make all your house guests wear bloody tracking anklets!?”

There was a strange warmth to Hannibal’s smile, “No my dear Will. Only you.”

It was hard to keep his anger fuelled, when he was met by such calm confidence and a disconcerting smile, and Will deflated back into his chair in a slump, lost for what to do next.

Hannibal rose from his chair, collecting his wine glass in a smooth sweep, and looked towards the open archway.

“Come. I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Will followed, his every footstep reminding him of the anklet, as it rubbed against his sock. 

The house was a modest size, with large windows looking out onto the night, the horizon obscured with green pines on all sides. The floors were all hardwood, with a pleasing solidity underfoot. 

The clean lines of the wall were not marred by electrical sockets, something that Will only noticed because it was so very unusual. There was no TV, computer or phone. Hannibal had mentioned CDs however, and once he looked for it he saw a small cabinet with a wooden front he guessed to house a sound system, by the way it was positioned centrally.

There were other modern conveniences, such as a washing machine and tumble drier, but tucked away to the side in a separate alcove, as if their necessity was irksome.

Places to sit in the main areas were limited, a single two person sofa in dark chocolate leather near the empty bookshelf, or the pair of matching armchairs arranged by the fireplace, separated only by a small table for drinks. If it were anywhere else, Will might have described it as cosy and pleasant; a secluded retreat from the outside world.

Instead, the myriad of ways that Hannibal could force proximity unsettled Will, the comforts and layout reminiscent of a couple’s home. 

He stumbled, his feet stuttering to a halt as his mind closed round the prospect of being groomed into Hannibal’s _partner_ , and Hannibal, who had been silent, stopped and turned.

“Is there a problem?”

Will wanted to shout, to swear and spit at his kidnapper to show his extreme objection to such scheme. Instead he bit his tongue against the brewing outburst, drawing back slightly but not running, even though his nerves screeched for him to put distance between them.

“No.” he lied. 

Everything in his posture was at odds to the statement, his muscles tensed and ready to spring, his eyes wide and fixed, and he would have been shocked if Hannibal was taken in by the deception. 

Thankfully, the doctor elected not to push for truthful answer, instead moved away, and pointed to the door beside Will’s room. “That is my bedroom, and you’ll find it locked. It is out of bounds.”

Something that felt like relief washed down Will’s spine, that he would not be dragged into Hannibal’s bed. He stood a little straighter, and his shoulders lost some of the tightness that had gripped them stiff.

Hannibal, on seeing Will’s reaction, pointed to another closed door. Will recognised it as the door he’d first entered the house from, and now saw a keypad to one side he had not noticed before. “The garage. Likewise, out of bounds.”

Will nodded to show he understood the unspoken suggestion that there would be consequences should he be found in either of the banned areas.

Hannibal did not dwell, and led Will to the side of the house, reaching and opening a glass panelled door to the side of the main living space.

Wall mounted heaters lined two of the four walls, the fourth almost entirely glass. The ceiling too, was composed of glass panels, and though it was night, the room was shrouded in a strange shade of light from strips of uncomfortably bright bulbs.

“This shall be a hydroponic garden, in time. The door is to keep the humidity from permeating the rest of the abode.” Hannibal explained.

“It looks like a cannabis farm.” Will found himself commenting. All it needed was a ragged and stained mattress in the corner and some home-made insulators made from cardboard wrapped in tin-foil, and it would rival any hidden illicit plantation.

Hannibal’s lips tightened. “I assure you, there will be nothing that so dims the senses and destroys the mind growing here.”

Will might have burst into laughter, had his chest not been so constricted by tension. That Hannibal found murder and mutilation and even cannibalism acceptable, but held such scorn for a minor illegal drug seemed ridiculous.

Hannibal, wine glass in hand, purposefully strode forwards, and Will followed, detecting that the ‘tour’ was drawing to a close.

“Though cliché, I have in fact saved the best till last.”

The front door swung open smoothly, and crisp, clean air greeted him as he joined Hannibal in standing on the porch, looking out into the night. The scent of pine was heavy, matched with the earth and wood fragrance for forest, and there was no sounds save for that of rustling trees and their breathing. Above his head, a couple of moths batted against the light. Beyond the halo of light, Will could pick out nothing but trees all around them, the darkness making it hard to see much else.

Hannibal reached behind him, and Will jumped forward, only to hear the click of a lightswitch before the lights, both above and behind him were cut off. 

In the sudden dark, Will drew quick breaths in through his nose, the surround forest no longer tranquil, but sinister and unknown. He’d have backed away, if he did not fear tripping on the stairs leading down to the ground and breaking his neck. He swung round, as he felt a hand lightly touch against his shoulder.

“The stars Will, I was trying to show you the stars…”

Hannibal’s face seemed ghostly and gaunt as Will gained night vision, and he saw a long pale hand pointing skyward.

His heart still was beating fast, but he looked up, and made a soft noise of wonder he saw the entire sky awash with stars. The view was limited due to the trees, but even in remote Wolf Trap, he’d never seen the stars so numerous or bright. There was the curl of the Milky Way sweeping to the side, and constellations he could not name, dotted across inky black. The starlight illuminated the steps, and Will found the edge with his foot, and managed to made it onto the woodchip of the ground, not minding that his socks were dampened.

Hannibal made no move to stop him as he walked from the house, tilting his head upwards and marvelling at the sight. Neither did he hurry the empath, even as his skin and feet grew chilled, the shirt and socks too thin to keep the cold at bay.

Will felt calmer, staring at the sky, and though it’d be easy to attribute his sense of peace to the great wide starscape, he felt it far more likely that his panicked reaction to the sudden lack of light had burned the last of his adrenaline reserves. Adrenal fatigue, and more mundane exhaustion due to his eventful day _\- days?! -_ had drained him of the ability to fear, his anxiety waned even as he stood with a killer.

He turned to see Hannibal standing by the steps, glass in hand, quietly appreciating the view. 

Goosebumps rose up across his skin, giving his flesh the texture of the roasted duck breast. He shivered, not entirely due to the cold, and took a step back to the house.

Hannibal went first, flicking the switch and illuminating the inside as well as the little porch light to the delight of the moths which resumed their suicidal worship. He sidestepped to allow Will to pass, and he carefully looked over the front door, seeing with surprize no keypad to bar his way in and out. There was a key sitting in the lock on the inside of the door, a simple solid thing, and that seemed the only form of security.

Hannibal saw Will staring at the key, and smiled. “I have my own key, if you would like to take that one for yourself. Or you can leave it in the lock; we are remote enough I highly doubt we shall need to worry about locked front doors.”

“You will leave this door unlocked?” Will could hear the doubt in his own voice, making him sound like a child.

Finishing the last of his wine, Hannibal nodded once; definite confirmation that Will had not misheard due to wishful thinking.

He was about to reach for the key, grasping at the opportunity for escape when he realised there would be no point. He had no-where to go, no clue how far he’d have to walk before he came across anyone else. The tracking bracelet would ensure he could not hide from Hannibal, and the truck would mean that Hannibal could easily outpace him. The lack of light pollution dimming the stars indicated that there was no-one else for miles, and even if there were, finding them in the depths of the forest would be next to impossible.

The bright and majestic glow of the stars soured, as he realised just how alone he was.

Just as Hannibal had intended in showing him the night sky, Will thought bitterly.

He had to grudgingly admit that Hannibal’s resourcefulness had produced an elegant solution of how to stop an FBI consultant escaping or causing trouble without resorting to excessive restraints. 

With a sigh he dropped his hand from the front door, leaving the useless key behind. Looking up, he saw Hannibal scrutinising him, and then slowly nod as he took in Will revelations. He seemed pleased, proud, that Will had grasped the situation so quickly.

“It seems an inordinate amount of effort… all these keypads and preparations. You must have been planning for months.”

“Indeed.” There was pride there, and satisfaction at his endeavours being acknowledged.

An odd thought occurred; “How could you afford all this?”

Hannibal laughed softly, “My patients tended to be wealthy, and found that in addition to treating their various neuroses, I could also transmute their investment portfolios from drab book keeping into gold mines. I kept a healthy share of the generated profit for myself, and have been fortunate in my own investments. You see before you the fruits of my labour.”

Will scowled. “It is a very nice prison.”

Hannibal frowned, spinning the stem of the glass between his fingers. “I do wish you’d stop saying such things. The door is open, and shall remain so. Tomorrow we can go for a walk and explore the woodlands. Once you are orientated, you can venture forth to your heart’s content. There is a small lake a couple of miles away, and though I do not know what breed it holds, you could fish if you wish to find out.”

Will was about to snap off an angry retort about how he would not be fooled into thinking this some sort of holiday home, when the chill from his wet socks coupled with the night air gripped his body in a shudder.

“Hmm.” Hannibal murmured, “Perhaps you’d best go warm up, or you’ll be in no fit state come the morning. I shall see you for breakfast after sunrise. Till then, good night Will.”

Hannibal breezed past him towards the kitchen, exchanging his glass for Will’s untouched wine, and clearing the plates away out of Will’s line of sight. Will could hear the taps gush water, and the clink of china and glass. 

Uncomfortably cold, the dampness of his socks edging between his toes and cooling him further, he gave one last lingering look to the front door, key still set into the lock. Then, before he added hypothermia to the multitude of factors set against him, he went into his room and ran a hot shower, before getting changed and slipping under the covers to abate the creeping cold feeling that had sunk into his bones.


	5. Chapter 5

By morning Will had decided that he would not allow Hannibal to break his spirit so easily. 

True he was up against Hannibal’s meticulous planning and preparation, and uncanny knack for knowing exactly what questions would pry deepest. He would know Will’s weakness and fears, and how to apply pressure enough to crack apart his mental defences. Not to mention that the infamous Chesapeake Ripper had successfully eluded the some of the finest FBI agents for years, but that did not mean Will Graham had to roll over and accept his fate as Hannibal’s captive.

Not that he planned to fight and scream and shout, protesting Hannibal’s presence like a wild dog; he was more intelligent than to risk permanent incarceration in his bedroom. No, he’d bide his time, and learn all he could about the house, about Hannibal and his routines, and formulate an escape plan. 

He would be civil, courteous even, and when the time was right, he’d slash Hannibal with one of his own kitchen knives, or bash him over the head with something heavy and then summon help. The Ripper couldn’t well track him down if he was bleeding out onto the kitchen floor.

With that thought holding his head high, he went out from his room (which had not been locked overnight) and sat at the table as Hannibal was doing something complicated to eggs in a pan of boiling water. He stirred the water quickly clockwise, glancing up only briefly before returning to the task.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded louder, the tightness gone from his throat, the flutter of anxiety curtailed. 

Hannibal stopped stirring, and met Will’s eyes. Will held strong, not looking away, nor shying from that intense gaze. He saw Hannibal’s lips twitch upwards, and tried not to let that deter him from his resolution.

“Excellent.” Hannibal said aloud as he returned to the pan, vigorously swirling the water. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he had no tie or cravat, but he was as neatly presented as ever, as if his hair would not dare to fall out of place. Will tried not to mind that the clothes he himself was dressed in were not his own.

“Is there coffee?” Will kept his voice light, polite.

Hannibal did not look up. “You’ll find a cafeteire next to the kettle. There is a small bag of ground beans, not fresh unfortunately, to your left. Make sure to add the water when it is just short of boiling.”

Hannibal had in the past scolded Will for adding boiling water directly to coffee grounds, and subsequently guided him through making a fresh batch of coffee, Will's ‘ruined’ attempt thrown out. Though Will’s palate had evolved that he could now appreciate the difference between Hannibal’s coffee roast and the burnt out black fuel favoured by the police department, he had still tended to make instance coffee at home, much to Hannibal’s dismay. 

Since that day he had made efforts not to repeat his error, and that Hannibal instructed him like a child made him want to burn the beans just to spite him.

He held off the immature response, instead gathered himself up and set about brewing coffee, watching the kettle carefully. When the water seemed just short of forming little bubbles, he flicked the switch, and poured onto the dark grounds, the resulting smell pleasingly sharp. 

At the stove, at a distance that Will could reach out and touch, Hannibal made a small noise of approval. He looked over Hannibal’s shoulder, and could see two pans, one with water bubbling, the other with something rich and red steaming gently. The tang of tomatoes was in the air, and something herbal and fresh. He looked to the windowsill, but apart from basil and mint, and what he thought was rosemary but couldn’t be sure, the other greenery was beyond his ability to identify. 

“Poached eggs.” Hannibal said, somehow knowing where Will’s gaze was directed. He gestured to where the eggs were cooking, the spinning water keeping the whites central and condensed. “With balsamic tomatoes cut with sea salt and marjoram.”

“Sounds good.” He replied, as he took the brewing coffee and a couple of cups over to the table and set them down. Lacking the harsh astringent bite of instant coffee, Will found he enjoyed ground coffee without the need for the mellowing influence of milk, mirroring Hannibal’s own preference.

As Hannibal started to plate up the stewed tomatoes, carefully balancing the pale eggs on top, Will pressed the plunger of the cafetiere. He poured Hannibal a cup just as breakfast was served in front of him.

Hannibal took the cup, slowly, watching Will over the ceramic rim. His eyebrows were arched in surprise, far more expressive than the sunken eyes underneath. “Why, thank you Will.”

Will shrugged, as if he often served coffee to serial killers.

The eggs were good, the thick yolk breaking apart easily under fork, the tomatoes and herbs sharp and in perfect contrast to the creamy whites. The coffee, Will was pleased to note, was also decedent and rich, the slight acidic notes bright upon his tongue.

Hannibal ate silently, but his pace and the way he held his fork reverently indicated he was enjoying his meal. Will finished first, and sat back, sipping coffee, and turned his head so he could see the window, the night no longer restricting his ability to see.

Even by day, the forest was dark, with so many trees blocking the sunlight. Pines were thick and clustered together, with sun starved branches underneath in a nestled tangle, needles yellowed and dry.

There was also a road. More dirt track than driveway, with a token littering of packed earth and clay to keep the weeds down, but he could see that it ploughed a route through the pines and presumably, led to civilisation.

Something in the forest shifted, just a slight movement, but enough to catch his eye. He saw the familiar silhouette of the feathered stag emerge from the darkness, antlers like an excessive crown, moving slow and stately. It stopped just short of the treeline, and stared at him. 

Will swallowed hard and turned away, only to find Hannibal’s eyes fixed upon him, fork still and head inclined to the side.

“What do you see?”

Will shook his head, unwilling to answer. He felt as if describing the creature that had followed him across an unknown number of miles might give it substance other than that which his mind conjured. 

Hannibal frowned and rose from his seat. Will became very still, as Dr Lecter came round the table to stand behind him, head lowered, following Will’s line of vision to see what had affected him so.

“Your pupils are dilated, and your breath has quickened. What do you see Will?”

Hannibal was not touching him, but he could feel the presence of the man, too close for comfort. 

“Thought I saw an animal in the woods…” he muttered weakly, desperate to give Hannibal reason to back off. He hoped the statement contained enough truth that it’d not prompt further questions, question he had no idea how to even begin to answer.

“It would not surprise me.” Hannibal said as he straightened, still standing behind Will’s chair. “We have an abundance of wildlife as our new neighbours.”

Will could hear the steady inhale and exhale of the cannibal behind him, Hannibal apparently unhurried to return to his chair. Without being able to see the killer’s hands, his neck felt exposed and vulnerable, and the fear he had been keeping such careful control over jolted through his veins.

“Your coffee will be getting cold.” He tried, flicking a hand over to Hannibal’s unattended cup.

There was a pause, and Will could almost feel the grasp of fingers round his throat.

“Indeed. And since it was so diligently prepared it would be remiss of me to neglect the beverage.”

Will did not even try to hide the whoosh of air that passed his lips as the breath he had been holding was let loose as Hannibal moved away, sitting and taking up the coffee cup with kind regard. 

The sight of the stag had shaken Will’s nerve, he did not feel nearly as confident at being able to handle Hannibal, to be able to stand strong and not let the fear drive him insane. Not for the first time, he cursed the fantastical beast, and its particularly poor sense of timing.

The click of the coffee cup on the table snapped his attention forwards, Hannibal settling his hands in front of him, his plate cleared.

“We are, as you have no doubt noticed, in need of supplies. I intend to head out shortly, and will be gone for several hours. During this time, you will be restricted to your room, though you may take in books if you wish.”

Will recalled Hannibal’s bookshelves at his home, every title obscure and dauntingly rich in language and concepts. Hardly light reading, and he did not think he would enjoy battling with any such text when his mind was so scattered.

“Hmm. I doubt I’d find anything in your collection compatible with my tastes.” He stated sourly.

“Then perhaps it is time to expand your range. I can recommend some excellent novels, such as C.S.Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, or perhaps Letters from a Stoic by Seneca?”

That he had never heard of either book rang alarm bells in his head, and that Seneca seemed to have no first or last name did not bode well for a read he could easily follow. 

He crossed his arms, petulant, used to feeling inferior to Hannibal’s intellect but now resenting the psychopath’s attempts to _culture_ him.

Hannibal’s reaction was instant and apologetic, showing Will his palms as sign of acquittal of the topic. “All right, perhaps then you would allow me to provide some musical entertainment as an alternative. I would not wish you bored in my absence.”

“…What sort of music?” Will was doubtful he’d have better luck with Hannibal’s musical selections, and he hugged his arms into his chest, bracing himself for nothing but choir concertos and the warbling sopranos of which Hannibal was fond.

“A variety. I downloaded several albums which you can browse at your leisure. There is classical music, but also more contemporary artists. They are on an MP3 player, charged and ready.”

“And if I decide that I don’t want to be locked up?”

“Then I shall have to delay, and you will find dinner subsequently lacking.” Hannibal’s lips tightened and his voice dropped to a lower pitch, “Especially if you wish a vegetarian option.”

Will’s thoughts went to the freezer, and he dipped his head, unwilling to consider the eating of human flesh, even if the alternative was starvation.

“Looks like incarceration it is then.”

Hannibal sighed at the use of the term, and started to rise. “I shall strive not to dally any longer than necessary, and will open the door upon my return. I would recommend you take some bottles of water in case you get thirsty, and I shall fetch the music player.”

Will sat at the table, wondering if he had any other option other than to allow himself be locked in. He had not thought himself claustrophobic, but the idea of being trapped in the room unsettled him, moreso now the feathered stag had made reappearance. He wondered if the keypad lock would hinder it, then laughed grimily at the notion the hallucination would be affected at all by the physical world.

With effort, his legs feeling heavy and uncooperative, he got up and collected three bottles of water from the fridge, the condensation soaking through his shirt sleeve.

Walking back towards his room, he saw that the bookshelf in the main living space had been partially filled; leather covers and embossed titles, and a good number of text in Italian or French. With a snort and a silent prayer that Hannibal’s music collection was not quite so pretentious, Will crossed the hardwood floor to his room, leaving the door open so he’d be able to see Dr Lecter approach.

He was sitting the bottles in the shade so they’d not heat up as the sun shone through the window when Hannibal exited from his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He stood at the threshold, and knocked upon the doorframe, waiting for permission to enter.

Rather than invite the Ripper into his space, Will went to him, eyeing the object in his hands. It was a standard MP3 player, and speakers, as well as headphones, wires curled round into a neat little loop. On top, was his watch.

“I thought you might like this back.”

Will took the various items from Hannibal, grasping at the watch and starting to fasten it round his wrist, longing to feel the reassuring grip of the timepiece.

It occurred to him that Hannibal could have returned it at any time, and he raised a brow at him.

“This is a reward for my compliance, isn’t it?”

Hannibal did not answer, but amusement sparked behind his eyes.

Will lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, both grateful for his watch, but hating that the gift of it was being used to reinforce his behaviours.

“So if I behave I get rewarded… A little basic is it not?”

Hannibal broke into a smile, “Perhaps, but behavioural modification is a proven theory, with high success rate.”

With his watch firmly on his wrist, Will felt his courage return. Squaring up his shoulders, he filled his lungs with air, subconsciously making himself seem bigger to ward off a predator.  
“And if I misbehave? Does that merit punishment?”

Hannibal’s eyes turned sharp, “I do not think you would wish to find out.” 

Will did not change his stance, but self-preservation kicked in and he did not ask further questions. 

Hannibal moved smoothly onto a new topic, “Now, unless there is anything else, I should be going. I estimate that I’ll be more than three hours, but less than six.”

When Will declined to give a reply, Hannibal reached, and swung shut the door. A soft tapping, presumably at the keypad, and then a jarring clunk, and the door was sealed. Will resisted testing the handle, but told himself that he would once he thought Hannibal had left.

He walked to the bed, and lay down upon the sheets, and settled in for the long stay.

***

On closer inspection, the MP3 player was actually more varied in range than Will had guessed, and there were a couple of albums he owned himself, as well as classic rock and jazz, which he could happily listen to as he whiled away the hours. He could not imagine Hannibal willingly assaulting his refined ears with Bon Jovi however, and suspected the more standard tracks were solely there for his benefit.

The music, however, proved to not be as distracting as he would have hoped. His surroundings were neat, and clean, but the notion that Hannibal would never let him out again preyed upon him, the room seeming tight and airless as the idea took hold. His mind kept turning over and over itself, building up speed like a boulder rolling down a hill.

He checked his watch; and his heart suck when he saw that only forty-five minutes had passed since the door had been shut, and just 40 since he heard the rumble of an engine pulling away.

“The time is 9.19AM. My name is Will Graham…. And I have absolutely no idea where I am…” 

He supposed he could say that he was in Hannibal’s secret hideaway, locked in a room, but that hardly seemed like an improvement.

He could feel himself getting more and more agitated, his air coming in short quick stutters and his brow clammy, and so forced himself to breathe, to slow down and take stock. 

He was whole, which was a good start. Through understandably stressed, he found his thinking clear, if prone to bouts of panic. Not entirely surprising or unwarranted, given the circumstances and that the identity of his kidnapper was one of the most feared and extreme serial killers of recent years.   
He was not without his wits. He had already systematically checked the bedroom for any useful resources, and thought that if he really wanted to, he could prise the tap free and use the lump of metal to shatter the window, using a shirt wrapped round his hand as shield against the shards of glass. 

While that didn’t seem like his best option at the moment, it was nice to know he had some sort of plan, albeit one which carried with it a whole host of additional problems, assuming the glass was breakable at all. He doubted very much that Hannibal would appreciate the vandalism, and may well take measures to avoid a repeat performance. He did not dwell on how Hannibal might accomplish that.

Though, Hannibal hadn’t actually hurt him yet, and seemed disinclined to use force. He even seemed concerned with Will’s welfare, providing entertainment to stave off boredom. 

It could be worse.

Will sat up suddenly, and shook his head. ‘It could be worse’ was a poisonous thought indeed, just short of ‘Maybe Hannibal actually cares about me,’ and he would not allow himself to slip and forget that this was a killer, and a kidnapper besides. He was here against his will, and no amount of token gifts or small allowances would make that he had been _stolen_ all right.

_He is a monster. He is not my friend._

Reassured he was not slipping into Stockholm Syndrome, Will let his spine curl back onto the bed. He checked his wristwatch.

Fifty-six minutes since Hannibal had left.

“Fuck.”


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal was in an excellent mood.

So much so that he only briefly considered garrotting the checkout girl who seemed more concerned with her mobile phone than serving her customers, namely himself. He was less than impressed with the quality of the foodstuffs, especially given the price, and the range was poorer than he have anticipated for an organic speciality grocer, but even the slow drudge of the queue at the mercy of an inattentive part-time clerk could not dampen his spirits.

Things were going well. Will had neither broken down, which had always been a risk when faced which such drastic upheaval, like a pot plant suddenly brought in from the cold, nor attempted any violent outbursts. In fact, all things considered, Will was settling in quite well. 

He had no doubt that Will Graham would be planning and plotting on how he’d make his daring escape, Hannibal expected nothing less of an FBI consultant who had never yet shied from danger. He was looking forward to see what Will would try, it should prove interesting insight into his mind under pressure.

Hannibal coughed politely, ensuring to rasp to fit with the hunched elderly gent persona he had shrouded himself with to avoid detection. 

The trick was subtlety. A worn and slightly ragged jacket, and woollen flat cap pulled low over his eyes, and a cane he leant on as he walked, and he very much doubted he would be recognised as Hannibal Lecter.

The checkout girl looked up, and gave a bright grin. 

“Be with you in just a mo.”

“Take your time dearie, I’m in no rush.” Said Hannibal, smiling back, wondering if Will would prefer mushrooms in a soy based sauce, or cream. He decided on soy, as it would be quicker to prepare, and after a long day without lunch, he expected his house guest to be hungry upon his return.

****

Will had turned off the music, waiting to hear the engine of the truck return. It had just ticked past the five hour mark, when his ears picked up the grind of tires, and he twisted to the window. 

He breathed a soft sigh of relief, as he heard the sound grow louder, and the nagging doubt that Hannibal had abandoned him loosened its grip on his mind.

Visions of a standoff where Hannibal was seen had been reeling in his head, the local police of wherever-they-were eager to capture the cannibal, not realising that if they killed him they would also be sentencing Will Graham to death by slow starvation. Or they would take Hannibal in alive, and the Ripper would take great pleasure in withholding Will’s location from them, knowing that as he languished in a cell, Will would be mirroring him, unseen, till he eventually succumbed.

He had had to take another shower to wash the cold sweat from his skin, as he all too clearly could see hours turning to days, the door locked tight and the window more robust than he’d thought, skin growing taunt over bones.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, he heard faint footsteps. What he assuming to be the garage door was solidly shut, and then more rhythmic taps against hardwood. When Hannibal unlocked the door to his bedroom, and knocked politely, Will rushed to see for himself that he was no longer trapped.

The door opened easily, and Hannibal seemed surprised at the speed at which he’d scrambled to the opened doorway, the air tasting fresh and clean.

“Will. A delight to see you so promptly… Is there a problem?”

“What happens if you don’t come back?” Will voice was quick and quiet, voicing bluntly the question that had been tormenting him the past hours.

The doctor looked confused, and gestured to the kitchen. “I believe you might like something hot to drink. You seem quite… agitated.”

“Just answer me. What happens to me if you do not come back?”

Hannibal took a breath, and smiled. “I will always come back for you Will.”

“That’s a promise you know you cannot make.” Will hissed, annoyed at the platitude and the lack of reassurance it offered.

Hannibal nodded solemnly, “Let me clarify. If it is at all within my power, I shall endeavour to always return to you.”

“What if you can’t? What then?”

Hannibal brushed absently at his coat sleeve, and Will realised he was wearing different clothes; some sort of disguise. He’d come straight to his bedroom door to open it, without changing, and it did not take an empathic detective to see that the doctor did not like wearing such garb.

Hand midway through sweeping the line of the coat Hannibal stopped, and peered at Will, eyes growing sharp.

“Will. Come sit and have something to drink.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hannibal took a small step forward, telegraphing plainly his hand as it came up to rest upon his shoulder. 

“But Will, you are shaking.”

*****

Upon realising he was indeed shaking, Will paled, face leeching colour as if bleeding out, and Hannibal stepped in quickly to lend weight against his shoulder, steadying the man as he seemed to lose his balance momentary. 

The empath offered no resistance as Hannibal guided him to the nearest armchair, and fetched through from the kitchen a glass of water and a packet of small caramelised biscuits, flicking the kettle on to boil as he passed. He’d have preferred to present the biscuits on a plate, and serve them with bitter coffee as complimentary beverage to fully appreciate the sugary treat, but he did not like to leave Will unattended for more than absolutely necessary and he doubted strong coffee would have a soothing effect upon such frazzled nerves.

The reaction looked like a compounded mix of shock and panic attack, and while Hannibal was not entirely surprised to see Will in such a fragmented state, the apparent trigger of being left alone puzzled him. 

He had purposefully delayed his return, partly to hide how far from the house the nearest town was as it would be best if Will believed that they were far from possible help, when in fact he could reach the start of houses and corner shops in about sixty miles by truck, following the long and winding road (in was likely less if one were to cut across the forest, but without maps and navigational aid near impossible). 

Also, he had intended to give Will breathing space. He did not want to overwhelm his guest, and had thought the peace might have been appreciated. Will tended towards introverted, preferring his own company and Hannibal wished to respect that.

Will had not spoken since being sat down, and his eyes were dropped to the floor, staring but unfocused. Hannibal, deciding that a focal point might help more than conversation, went to the kettle, and brought back a hot cup of milky tea sweetened with honey, and pressed it into Will’s hands.

He blinked, and drew round the cup, as if for comfort. Hannibal took a biscuit, and sat down in the armchair to his side, slowing his breathing to instil a sense of calm, letting Will begin to talk in his own time.

Eventually, and halfway through the tea which must have burned his tongue he drank it down in such gulps, Will opened his mouth; “I… I thought you’d been found by the police, and that I’d be stuck in that room…”

Hannibal made a soft ‘ah’ noise, seeing that it was not his absence that had cause Will such upset, but the notion of being indefinitely confined.

“I am not planning on alerting the police to my presence. You see that I am wearing a rather hideous ensemble, which happens to include a cane and cap that I saw fit to leave in the truck, to make it even less likely I will be noticed as a person of interest.”

“Oh, I do not doubt you’d be careful, meticulous even… But I uncovered you by accident, by sheer dumb luck that you could not have foreseen.”

Hannibal tactfully did not mention how very long it took for a so-called expert to see him for what he was.

“…and the FBI will release your face.” Will continued, “Everyone will be looking out for the Ripper.”

Will, of course, was not to know that the police were unlikely to be actively seeking Hannibal Lecter.

Will had been safely sedated, when Hannibal had doubled back to his house, and cleared away all traces of his unusual dining habits. Though he would have relished imagining the look on the face of Crawford as he received laboratory results revealing that the meat in the fridge was human in origin, a manhunt would draw more attention than he would prefer, now that he had safely secreted himself and Will away.

His and Will’s sudden disappearance would be suspect, yes, and Jack Crawford would likely turn his home upside down looking for clues, but liaising with the police force had been rather informative in learning about the most up-to-date forensic investigation techniques, and Hannibal was confident that they would find nothing incriminating, save for some creative book keeping and undeclared earnings he had not wished to announce to the taxman.

At worse a photograph of himself and Will Graham would be splattered across the news, forgotten within a matter of days as yet more missing persons to add to the multitude that disappear every year. 

Hannibal deemed that Will did not need to know that there would be no search party spanning the borders, in hot pursuit of the Ripper. It would likely only exacerbate the current situation. That Will was so troubled, did however offer interesting opportunity. 

“Hmmm. I see your point and understand your concern. Would it put your mind at ease if I set the door to a timer, that it will automatically open within thirty-two hours of being locked, whether I am present or not?”

Will’s mouth dropped open, his eyes flashed upwards, scanning over Hannibal’s face looking for signs of insincerity.

“You would do that?” his voice remained incredulous, but hopeful. It was rather endearing.

“Of course. Even though I do not plan to ever be gone that length of time, you are clearly worried about the matter and I think it might offer you some comfort to know there is a safeguard in place.” Hannibal tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully, “I shall have to consult the manual how to do this. If you would allow me a moment to change out of this coat, and then unpack the groceries, we shall see about getting it sorted straight after luncheon. I imagine you are somewhat peckish; I was away longer than I tended.”

Will nodded, a little too quick to be pretend that he would not agree to just about anything, if Hannibal kept his word about the door. With a satisfied smile Hannibal strode to his room, to shuck off the ghastly coat and change into something more dignified.

***

The late lunch was delicious, though Will could not tell if it was his hunger or perfect relief that he’d not be left to die that added such spice to the sautéed mushrooms, soy, white wine, ginger, garlic and onion.

He ate with gusto as Hannibal spoke on how he looked forward to establishing their garden that they could ensure higher quality vegetables, complaining at the poor choice of produce available at the grocer. Will managed a crooked grin, brief but honest, when Hannibal bemoaned the state of the aubergines, likening them to sagging balloons.

When they were finished and dishes stacked next to the sink, Hannibal brought out from his room a thick technical manual for the door keypad, and began reading sat upon the sofa.

Will hovered at the kitchen archway, aware that Hannibal would notice him, but more focused on the manual. It would hold valuable information about the details of the door, and possibly how to override it from the inside. 

He ducked his head, and made a show of rubbing his eyes, playing up the flutter of agitation that still lingered. He doubted that anything short of taking the door from its hinges would prove complete solution to his anxiety, but a timer did seem workable compromise.

The Psychiatrist rose, and walked over to Will’s door, standing in front of the keypad with one hand holding the manual to a particular page. He turned, to see Will craning his head, and beckoned him across.

“You will have to close your eyes while I enter the passcode, but then you’ll be free to see the timer being put into place. I trust that this will set your mind at ease?”

“Yes.” Will whispered, as he came forwards, standing shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal, the closest he had come willingly since being captured. He took one look at the Ripper, and then squeezed his eyes shut, trusting that if Hannibal had wanted to hurt him, he’d had better opportunities. 

Even though he could not even see light his eyes were scrunched so tightly, he felt the air shift as a hand was pressed across his eyes, Hannibal apparently taking no chances in ensuring secrecy. The palm was cool, and gentle, and Will could smell Hannibal’s cologne emanating from the wrist, a light spicy fragrance with woody undertones.

He did not move away, nor flail at the enforced blindness, and soon heard a tapping at the keypad followed by a faint electrical beep of acceptance.

The hand was removed, though the scent lingered around Will’s face. He took a breath, then opened his eyes.

Hannibal had turned his shoulder sideways, and held his hand at an odd angle, that Will could see clearly the small digital screen above the keypad. He typed in a few commands, consulting with the manual, then ‘3’ then ‘2’ followed by ‘:00’, before pushing enter.  
The screen read ‘timer = 32.00hr. confirm?’

Hannibal turned his head, and looked at Will, and then pressed down firmly upon the enter key, holding it down.

There was another pleased little beep, and Hannibal stood back. Will tried to stop himself following the manual in Hannibal’s hands as it was lowered, but he could not help himself, the pages so very close.

Hannibal glanced down, seeing where Will gaze was directed. He shifted his hand, fluttered the thin pages, before turning from the door. He laid the manual out on the table beside the two armchairs, then took himself to the bookshelves, selecting a book and settling down to read.

The implication was clear, if Will wanted to read the manual he was free to, but he was being encouraged none-too-subtlety to sit beside Hannibal in the paired armchair while he did so.

Will was torn. That he was grateful for the door timer was an understatement; he could already feel the heavy claustrophobic pressure ease (though he thought that come the night, he would prop open the door, just to be sure). However, Hannibal’s comment about behavioural modification echoed at the back of his mind, and he disliked the idea that Hannibal thought he could _train_ him.

Still, behaviour modification could work both ways, and two could play at that game.

Will brought himself round, and picked up the manual. He stood so that Hannibal had no choice but to acknowledge his presence, and the doctor looked up, curious.

“Thank you for setting the timer on the door Hannibal.” Will said, keeping his voice even and verging on wooden, as if he was reciting a standard line in response.

He then sat down in the armchair, giving Hannibal a nod as he did so, making it absolutely clear that Hannibal had earned the pleasure of his company; a reward of his own to administer.

He did not turn to see, but he could hear Hannibal chuckle, the air vibrating in sympathy with his huffed breathed. Will found himself smiling, then tightened his lips against the curl, refusing to laugh along with the killer.

He saw the biscuits still out, and helped himself to a couple. 

He opened the manual, and did his best to ignore Hannibal’s continuing merriment as he started to read.


	7. Chapter 7

The manual had been both reassuring and completely frustrating. Everything indicated that the timer upon his door would indeed work, and had been successfully installed, but there was nothing that Will could see which would allow him to bypass the passcode, or force the lock from the other side. In fact, the manual boasted on how secure the lock system was, once activated.

The next option then, would be to somehow lock Hannibal in his room, allowing Will time to make his escape. This too, seemed impossible without the relevant passcode. 

Will sighed, and closed the manual.

Hannibal looked up from his book, and set it neatly upon his lap. “I was contemplating a walk after I set dinner on to cook, would you care to join me?”

“In making dinner, or the walk?” It was somewhat childish to purposefully misunderstand, but the manuals’ lack of simple solutions had irked him, and Hannibal’s enduring good humour invited mockery.

“Both, if you like.” Hannibal, not rising to the baited sarcasm, remained serene and cheerful. 

Lacking in anything else to occupy himself with, and not wanting to be seen to poke and prod his surroundings so blatantly so soon, Will nodded.

In the kitchen, Hannibal set some classical music to play in the background, and had Will peel and chop potatoes and carrots for roasting, while he mixed and kneaded a batch of bread dough, the flour stark and pale against dark marble worktops. He wore a black apron, which Will tried not to liken to a butchers’.

Even though he could hear the steady sounds of hands pressing and stretching dough, Will still twisted himself round at an angle that was awkward, that he did not have his back to the cannibal; keeping him in sight. Something about being in the kitchen, Hannibal’s arena, renewed the flight or fight response within him. Between his diverted attention and his skewed stance, the peelings scattered wide across the counter and sink, and the sections of root vegetable were lopsided and uneven.

Will automatically tidied after himself when he had completed the task, knowing that Hannibal liked his cooking surfaces clear of clutter and mess. Hannibal made no noise of approval, but did turn to watch as Will clattered about the bin. He might have smiled, but Will did not meet his eyes to see such expression.

The dough was left to prove, and Hannibal instructed Will to coat the vegetables with olive oil and salt. A bulb of garlic was neatly halved, segments like pale flower petals radiating from the centre, and added to the tray, and the oven set to a low temperature, that their dinner would not burn while they were out.

Hannibal’s hands and apron were dusted with flour, and as he rang fingers under the tap he tipped his head towards Will.

“I shall be just a moment, then we can take advantage of the remaining daylight hours and properly survey our surroundings.”

He set aside the apron, releasing the ties with practiced ease, and strode to his own bedroom. Will followed, curious, and saw Hannibal shift so that his body blocked the view as he typed at the keypad. He slid inside, and then returned soon after, carrying a pair of thick woollen coats.

He held the brown one out to Will, keeping a dark charcoal one for himself. They were similar in style, lengthy but not so long they’d drag through the forest detritus, and pleasingly soft and warm to the touch.

Will pulled it on, the weight like a pair of reassuring hands across his shoulders.

“Shall we then?” asked Hannibal, similarly wrapped in wool, holding the door open for Will.

Hands thrusts into the deep pockets (finding a handkerchief already placed there), and trying not to seem overly keen to see where they were, Will stepped through.

The pace was gentle, and first took a tour round the outside of the house, then once Hannibal was satisfied that Will had had chance to orientate himself, started along the dirt track road. 

The house was compact, and seemed like someone had dropped the homestead down in the middle of the deepest part of the forest. There were no garbage cans, or letterboxes, or anything to indicate that the house was at all part of a wider community. Cut off completely, but then, Will had already guessed as much.

Refusing to dwell on what he could not change, Will instead savoured the freshness of the air, and the open space. He could easily see himself spending long hours out in the woods, far as he could from Hannibal. It made the prospect of a long term stay more manageable, if he would not have to be regularly rubbing shoulders with his kidnapper, having to keep constant vigil in case Hannibal tired of his reluctant company and fancied a snack.

“It’s colder here… Are we north?” Will could not tell if the day was simply cooler, if they were far north enough to have different climate, or if the heavy shade caused by the pines was making him feel more chilled than he had when out walking his dogs back in Wolf Trap.

Hannibal pointedly did not reply, and Will sighed at the silence. He was not surprised that he was not told anything about their location, but given that the doctor could be very verbose when the mood took him, the lack of answers was frustrating. 

He hunched his shoulders, and his step lost a little of its bounce. He turned, and peered into the forest. Endless pillars of pine, shrouded by needles and shadow, it was hard to see far into the gloom. He looked behind, where he could see the curve of the road, the house some way behind them.

“You said there was a lake. Which way?”

Hannibal pulled out a compass, a little sturdy thing, and laid it flat upon his palm. He glanced at it, and then at Will. “South South-East, but that is assuming you start from the house. I would not care to wander into the forests in hopes of stumbling across it from here, the dark can be disorientating. We can go to the lake another day.”

The road had already started to bore him, and he no longer thought he’d find walking up and down the track like a pacing prisoner as satisfying a way to pass his time. Though he would have no difficulty picking his way across the rougher terrain of the forest without tripping over roots, Hannibal was unfortunately right about the risk of getting muddled. He shuffled, trying to figure out a way he could safely explore through the trees without getting himself hopelessly lost. Even with a compass, it would only take a small mistake to have him wander far off track.

If he had to rely on Hannibal’s direction and compass, the freedom of the outdoors seemed much less appealing.

He scratched at his stubble, “Could I get some tape, or twine, or something, and mark the path to the lake? Save me having to fathom the route every time I want to fish.”

Hannibal seemed to contemplate the request. “That can be arranged…”

He gave a short nod in thanks, and they continued to follow the road, the rough dirt track showing no signs of ever evolving into more substantial tarmac.

“So…” Will started, feeling like they should have something more interesting than endless miles of path to occupy them, “What will you do with yourself out here? I cannot imagine you’ll get the chance to throw such lavish dinner parties.”

“I shall garden, and read. I’ve been meaning to polish my Italian, I fear disuse has affected my accent terribly.” Hannibal did not break his stride when speaking, and Will noted that he seemed to be purposefully going slower for Will’s sake. “I shall cook, of course, and though the numbers may not be as before, I hope that I shall still be able to serve meals to tantalise and delight.”

Will frowned, “Just for me?”

“Naturally. I find your company stimulating and find that a good meal often promotes in-depth discussion. ”

“I’m not sure what we will have to talk about.” Will was aware his voice had dropped low only when he heard his own words, and the simmering anger took him aback. Somewhere along the road, all his goodwill from arranging the timer on his door had evaporated.

Hannibal gave a smile, and stopped walking. “I believe we will have many worthwhile conversations, you and I.”

He turned, and started back, leaving Will to hesitate only briefly before trudging after him.

***

Will’s cheeks stung with the cold as they came back inside, and he was glad of the pockets that had kept his fingers safe from the same. He took time to wipe his shoes free of dust and mud before moving towards the kitchen, where he knew the heat from the oven would ease the chill from his skin.

The roasting vegetables had started to smell appetising, a warm comforting fragrance filling the air, and as Will neared, he could hear the oil hiss as the skins glazed golden brown.

He was surprised to turn and Hannibal also entering the kitchen, shadowing his movements for a change, and he moved deeper into the room, keeping distance. Hannibal’s smooth steps closed the space between them.

“Your coat please.” Hannibal held a hand out for the garment. At first Will was puzzled, he was perfectly able to hang a coat up, then he realised that the coat was going to be returned to Hannibal’s room. Locked away - access restricted. Even though the front door was open, without the protection against the bitter cold the outer layers provided, he’d not be able to stay outside long before he’d get too cold for comfort, or health. 

His shoulders slumped low, and he met Hannibal’s eyes, silently pleading that the one glimmer of respite he’d found in his dire situation not be taken away so soon.

“I’ll hang it in my room.” He offered, weakly.

“Perhaps, one day, when I feel that you have earned such trust and privilege, but not today. _Your coat._ ” Hannibal’s voice had become clipped, and icy. It frightened Will, how quickly Hannibal’s tone could change from courteous to chilling.

Shucking free of the heavy wool, and feeling exposed and cold without it, Will passed it across, eyes to the floor. He felt Hannibal’s hand brush against his, only for a moment, but deliberate. 

He jerked back, offended that Hannibal would take advantage of his momentary lapse in alertness to touch him. He scolded himself, and vowed to pay better attention to the killer.

Hannibal only tipped his head forward, folding the coat over an arm. “Thank you.” he said, and then was gone, presumably to his own room to lock away the winter-wear.

***

Dinner was quiet, despite Hannibal’s attempts to converse. Will’s mood was morose, and he tended to reply in single sullen words. 

Fresh bread still warm from the oven, and roasted vegetables, served with spiced rice and a sharp vinegar sauce to cut through the sweetness of the carrots and the blandness of the potatoes, and still Will only picked at the food upon his plate.

Hannibal, however, who had sprinkled crisped stripes of meat on his own serving (Will did not care to enquire about the origin of the cuts), was not deterred by his dour dinner companion. 

“If the weather remains fair, would you like to visit the lake tomorrow? You can advise me on what fishing supplies you would need. I am afraid I am rather ignorant of the sport, and its paraphernalia.”

Will said nothing, and prodded at the half bulb of garlic, its shape odd and a puzzle to figure out how to eat.

Hannibal shifted his attention to his own half, and with a nimble flick of his fork, pried out a clove from its softened paper casing, much like one would eat a grapefruit segment. 

“Roasting makes the garlic soft and sweet, all the sting of its bite mellowed by the heat.”

Will felt like a child, as he mimicked Hannibal’s demonstration, and pulled a lump of garlic to his mouth. It was sweet, like parsnip, and though there was the strong stink of the herb, its taste was soft as the roasted flesh of the bulb. He gave a little nod in agreement to Hannibal’s statement.

“It ought to go nicely with the spice of the red…” Hannibal suggested mildly, taking his wine glass in hand and gesturing to Will’s which had so far been untouched.

Dutifully, Will lifted his glass, and Hannibal gave his a slight dip, toasting without clinking the crystal in the usual manner. Will had asked about that, back in Baltimore, and Hannibal had stated he saw no need to stress the crystal with such vulgar tradition. 

“To fine wine and fine company.” He said, and sipped the dark red liquid.

Will cocked his head to the side, not yet tasting the wine, too much surprised by Hannibal’s curious toast.

“I have hardly been ‘fine company’ this evening…”

“Perhaps not, but I appreciate that it has been a trying day for you, and I can understand that you were disappointed about the coat...”

Will huffed in agreement; disappointed was putting it mildly.

Hannibal did not pause, “…and the issue with the door caused you distress, for which I apologise.”

Will drank from his glass, wetting his lips before speaking. The wine was deep with tannin, and lingered heavy upon his tongue.

“While I am still grateful for the timer, I don’t get why you’d bother with the lock at all. We’re clearly miles from anywhere. Where do you think I’m going to go?”

“I have hopes that the lock will not always be necessary, but for the time being I would rather know that you are not going to get yourself into trouble whilst I am absent.”

Will’s ears pricked up, “And how often do you intend to be absent?” He could not tell whether he was pleased or frightened at the prospect of Hannibal leaving him locked in the room frequently.

“Unfortunately, there is a great deal that still needs to be bought and brought in. Hydroponic supplies, paint for the walls, miscellanies items not urgent but that will eventually be needed…” Hannibal sighed softly at the chore of arranging the house to his liking. “For the first few weeks, I foresee that I shall have to make many trips out, one every couple of days.” He glanced up, and inclined his head towards Will, “On that note…”

Hannibal rose to his feet, and went to a kitchen cupboard, bringing out from it a thin white box. He held it out to Will, in such a way Will would have to extend his arm to accept.

It was a packaged kindle, glossy and new.

“I picked up something today that might stop the hours seem so dull. Since your tastes and mine are so very different, I thought I’d try to remedy that you did not seem enamoured with my book collection.” Hannibal’s tone was amused, not disappointed, “Rather than try to guess what you might like to read, I thought I’d give you the choice. Tell me, and I will download the books you would like.”

Will closed both hands around the box, and tried to draw it towards him. Hannibal held on, not yet yielding the gift. 

“Thank you.” Will said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Hannibal’s insistence that manners be upheld.

And with proper curtsy acknowledged, the box was released into Will’s care.

He turned the gift over in his hands, surprised, and admitting quietly to himself that he was somewhat touched that Hannibal would respect his preferences, and not inflict upon him that which the doctor deemed worthy. 

It also sparked his interest for another reason. If Hannibal could download books, it followed that there must be some form of internet connection in the house. It merited further investigation.

Something in the air changed then, and Will found his appetite renewed. He ate, and was more inclined to conversation. Hannibal refreshed their glasses, and after dinner they moved to the fireplace, a low crackling flame warming them. 

They spent the evening talking about books and authors they each enjoyed, and while Hannibal composed a list of writers Will favoured to be downloaded onto the new electronic reader, the empath permitted Hannibal to add a few of the more interesting books he mentioned to the list also.

When it came time to turn in for the night, Will found that he could easily close the door, and trust that it would open in the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

During the subsequent days, Will found that he slid too easily into routine. Whilst it was reassuring to have a basis for anticipating the times of meals and have regular small tasks to do to occupy his time, it unnerved him how quickly it became familiar. 

He would rise early in the morning, shower and dress, and then he would make coffee while Hannibal prepared breakfast. A collection of different beans and an electronic grinder had appeared on the countertop, and Will was enjoying working his way through the varieties. He had even started to mix them, and making notes of the more successful blends. Hannibal tolerated his experiments, and only once did not finish his drink, the high portion of robusta beans too bitter to enjoy. 

They would eat together in silence, sharing in the rising sun. 

Hannibal would either declare he was going out, and Will would be locked with kindle and music player, or Hannibal would state his plans for the day, such as tending to the gardens or going for a walk, allowing Will to accompany him or not as the mood took him. 

Will saw a change in Hannibal, now he had such excessive time to observe the man. He moved differently, more swift and confident, no longer hiding his strength. It was as if he had cast off the pretence, and unencumbered by feigning innocence could move like the predator he was. Or perhaps that the delay in filtering every movement though his mask was no longer in effect. Either way, Will was slowly growing to realise that Hannibal was a very alert and powerful man. It made him all the more wary not to be taken in by the soft words and gentle smiles. 

Will could not remember ever seeing Hannibal smile so frequently. The expression he saw grace Hannibal’s face was not the wide smile he had spread across his lips when social protocol demanded back in Baltimore, but the lingering curl that was more subtle, but genuine. 

Throughout the day, Hannibal would spend most of his time in the kitchens, preparing food for their meals, and Will, more often than not, would join him, for lack of anything else to do. Dr Lecter worked wonders with food, occasionally chatting and explaining his methods, but most often letting his blades cut without commentary, assembling spices and herbs like alchemy.

Will enjoyed watching Hannibal work, there was a fascination in seeing someone operate in their element, but sometimes the doctor would score a piece of meat for himself, or make a precise incision into the heart of a squash, and Will would be reminded that he had used those same talents upon his victims, then had had the audacity to serve it up to unsuspecting people like himself. When stuck by such thoughts, Will would excuse himself from the room, before he said something he’d later regret, or throw up.

Will had investigated the hydroponic garden, but found the humidity and heat stifling, and so had left Hannibal to his plants, the garden free from dirt and insects. The clinical method of growing seemed forced and unnatural, but even Will could not deny that the resulting crops grew fast, large green leaves flourishing in the sunlamps.

Boredom quickly had become an issue, and though the way to the lake was now marked by thick rope strung round the pines, the fish were wild and wilily and Will had yet to catch a single one. The equipment, provided by Hannibal, were new and expensive and designed for fishermen at a higher skill level than Will could ever hope to reach, but even that had not resulted in a successful catch.

He made lures, but without knowing the fish and their preferences, Will found that all of his handcrafted efforts were failing to entice the fish to his line. There were no other fishermen he could ask about better tactics, and his laborious trial and error approach seemed ineffective and discouraging.

On days when the weather would allow, Hannibal would join him at the lakeside with book or merely sitting and watching, but when drizzle dampened the air- conditions ideal for fishing- Hannibal most often declined. Without a coat to save him from getting chilled, Will was resigned to stay indoors, watching out the window like a forlorn dog.

He had ventured out without Hannibal, walking only short distances and picking days when the weather was clear so that the lack of coat did not hinder him. He’d grown used to the tracking anklet, and found that by folding his sock over the band he could stop it rubbing against the skin of his ankle, and pretend it was not there at all. 

He regularly circled the house, the forests too difficult to navigate and the dense dark depths hardly inviting. For exercise, for chance to stretch his legs, for time away from Hannibal, but most of all, for lack of anything better to do. He walked slowly, each time trying to catch glimpse past the curtains of Hannibal’s room. The decor was darker, deep chocolates and russets, which made the detail hard to pick out as he passed, trying not to draw attention to the fact he was trying to see what lay beyond the locked door. Hannibal’s room was much larger than his own, but that had to be expected. Dr Lecter would have no qualms about fairness when it came to the size of their space, when it was abundantly clear that they were not equal.

Likewise, the décor seemed to be of higher quality, a large double bed, with craved wooden posts, dominated one half of the room. A mirror on the other side made it hard to get sense of the layout, through Will’s all-too brief glances. The reflections skewed his vision, throwing out strange untrue angles, and distracting him from more important details like phones and keypads.

However, through this causal observation of the outside walls, he found that there were indeed lines and cables present at the house, each running across the roof into Hannibal’s room. He was energized by the sight of something with the ability to reach Jack Crawford and summon help, if he could only reach the functioning end of it.

The window was similar to the one barring his own bedroom, and he now doubted that he’d be able to break through the glass of either. Hannibal had planned too carefully to overlook such a weak link in the architecture. Ledges and rooftops were possible to get access to, if he was feeling particularly athletic, but not without making a great deal of noise, and Will was not sure he wanted to try when Hannibal would be able to hear for fear of the reaction. He was not sure what he’d do from such a vantage point anyway.

So far, he had given Hannibal no cause for complaint. He occasionally would sigh, or even glare with resentment, that Hannibal did not forget he was unimpressed with the situation, but most of the time he followed instructions as they were given.

Due to such dutiful behaviour, there had been no violence, no threats or mentions of punitive measures. They spoke, civil and courteous, and depending on Will’s mood that day would discuss anything from the trivial changes to the weather, to more in-depth topics such as reminiscent memories or appreciation of foodstuffs or wine. Hannibal would regularly add books to Will’s kindle, regardless of how talkative he’d been that day. 

A small notepad and pen sat by the bookshelf, after Will had categorically declared he’d not petition Hannibal for every single item he wanted. Instead, he would write out short shopping lists, and Hannibal would either buy the requested items or refuse as he saw fit. Will was granted pulpless orange juice and sliced bread for toast, but denied packets of jolly rangers on account of them being ‘ghastly confectionary’. He was also not permitted shaving supplies like a razor, but then, that had been an optimistic notion and he was not too surprised at Hannibal’s refusal to allow him something so easily turned into a weapon.

His bedroom became very familiar, as did the process of checking his electrical items had charge enough to last; his room having no electrical sockets to plug them in to when their batteries ran low. He’d collect bottles of water, sometimes take a couple of biscuits too, and then spend the next long hours working through his reading list, or surrounding himself with music while Hannibal did whatever-it-was he did went he went away.

The feathered stag still made appearance, but rarely, Will only just catching sight of the fleeting shadows running through the forest, or crossing past a doorway, or far out in the distance. His nightmares too, seemed less. Less dark, and less likely to disturb his sleep and bring him to sudden wakefulness soaked in sweat. That in itself was horrifying for Will, far moreso than any dreams of death and blood.

Not that he missed the nightmares or waking up with his breath rapid and panicked, but he was deeply concerned that they no longer troubled him when he should too afraid to close his eyes, much less get a full eight hours. He should jump at every clatter of pans, every footstep from behind, given that he was sharing residence with the Chesapeake Ripper, but he found more and more that the opposite was true. 

He did not get nervous when he didn’t know where Hannibal was anymore, and didn’t freeze like a startled rabbit whenever the doctor came near.

Conversation came more easily now between the two. He could not tell if it was because Hannibal had finished with the laying down of rules with unspoken consequences should Will fail to follow, or that his own reserves of adrenaline were completely burnt out, that smoothed the resentment of his incarceration enough he could stomach to speak with the cannibal. He had stopped flinching every time Hannibal moved too quickly in his direction, and the background buzz of fear in his veins had faded, but thankfully, not entirely. 

He found himself repeating his mantra of _He is a monster_ throughout the day to remind himself. Especially when he caught sight of Hannibal doing something so mundane as sneaking a second biscuit, or scratching his nose when he thought that Will was not looking.

The days passed. He did not count them anymore, it had been too depressing to see time tick by with no change, no rescue. Will could not stop their progression any more than he could grudgingly accept that reason his sleep had been more restful was likely because Crawford was no longer dragging him to every vivid episode of human depravity that occurred, and asking him to crawl into the mind of the perpetrators.

The lack of violence on the home front too, made it harder and harder to stay on such high vigil. Being alert all the time was exhausting, and Hannibal had done nothing to Will to merit the fearfulness that he tried to cling on to. 

Hannibal would still take the opportunity to brush against him when he could, or touch a shoulder to get his attention if it was elsewhere, but even then, it did not invoke the same panic as before.

It was all getting distressingly normal.


	9. Chapter 9

Captivity suited Will, Hannibal thought as the man in question poured him a fresh cup of coffee one morning.

His skin was not so sallow, the dark bags which had hung under his eyes less pronounced. He had lost the haunted look so habitual for him, and stopped twitching quite as badly anytime Hannibal happened to touch him. It had put him in mind of someone subjected to a vicious tazering, and Hannibal was glad to see the response mature past knee-jerk reaction.

He hunched less, and his clothes no longer hung from him. In part that was due to having properly fitted garments but Hannibal was pleased to note that Will was also putting on a little weight, now that he did not starve himself for sake of the terrible cases he chased after.

Jack had been a relentless task-master, his own self-worth so tied up in doing a good job he pushed those around him past their breaking points, under guise of pushing them to their fullest potential. 

It had distressed him to hear of the new cases Will was involved in, those that were not his own. The idea of his Will delving into some inferior psychopath’s mind, analysing _their_ handiwork and not his, had been unpalatable, and till Will had seen the Ripper’s true face, there had been very little that Hannibal could do to remedy the situation.

Now though, Will was his and his alone.

Hannibal looked at Will, coffee in hand, and smiled broadly. In an unguarded instant, Will grinned back, before he realised what his lips were doing. The resulting struggle to straighten his mouth, eyes hopeful that Hannibal had not seen, amused Hannibal greatly.

Will sat down, and looked at the omelette in front of him. Extra egg white strengthened with a dash of vinegar them whisked with a hand blender to make them supremely aerated, and Hannibal was pleased at the resulting fluffy texture, while the middle was moist and delicate. Crème fraise, not milk, added much needed sharpness to the creaminess of the egg, and the buttered spinach, while not usual breakfast fare, meant he did not have to worry that Will’s iron levels would be affected by his stubborn insistence on a vegetarian diet.

Hannibal fortuitously, was not as restricted, and he enjoyed finely sliced bacon in his omelette, that Will kept giving unpleasant and unnecessarily worried looks at. It was pig, chosen from the butcher’s counter rather than delving into his freezer’s bounty, and the rest of the pack sat in the fridge, ready for inspection should Will inquire.

He chewed slowly, letting the flesh of the meat release its smoked flavour upon his tongue. 

The sound of Will clearing his throat, repeatedly, made him direct his gaze, taking in Will fiddling with his fork, a piece of spinach draped between prongs. 

“I’ve been thinking…” he started out in a whisper, raising his voice as he tapped into the well of his strength and courage. “I’m fed up feeling like some kind of kept man, with you doing most the work around here…I’d like to cook breakfast…. Regularly, every morning. I know it won’t be as high quality as yours, but it’d give me something to do, and honestly, I need _something_ or I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You wish to cook for me?” Hannibal could feel the high arch of his eyebrows, such was his surprise at Will’s request.

Will did not seem to appreciate the tone Hannibal had adopted, lightly teasing and implying servitude, and he tapped the fork against the plate with obvious irritation. “I want to cook for me, and I might as well make enough for two.” He replied sharply. The empath no longer shied from speaking his mind, and Hannibal found he preferred Will’s unguarded tongue.

He lifted his head and met Hannibal’s eyes, all defiance and pluck, and Hannibal found he could not refuse.

“Very well. Add which ingredients you require to the shopping list, and I shall hand over breakfast preparation to you.” He tipped his head in a nod, and marvelled at Will’s ability to constantly astonishment him.

He added, with only a slight patronising edge, “You’ll remember, of course, that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Will rolled his eyes, but Hannibal caught sight of a lingering smile, unchecked, that remained. That alone was worth being subjected to Will’s overly sweet ideas of foodstuff suitable to start the day with. 

****

Will could tell Hannibal was only barely tolerant of pancakes for breakfast, but after two days of scrambled eggs that were supposed to be omelettes, he’d given up on trying to mimic Hannibal’s usual early morning meal plans.

He may not have liked the thick batter pancakes with syrup, but Will could tell that the doctor was quietly pleased that Will was taking an interest in the kitchen. Cookbooks started to appear on the bookshelves, and while most detailed meals far beyond Will’s ability to prepare (or even pronounce in some cases), there were some designed for the layman.

He started to intersperse pancakes with fresh fruit salads, or mixed muesli, or porridge with chopped nuts and honey. 

The coffee he also continued to make, and found that he was left to his own devices in the kitchen, whilst Hannibal showered, or, if Will was up particularly early, went out for his morning run. 

Hannibal, it seemed, had been getting up an hour before Will rose, in order that breakfast was just about prepared by the time the younger man came through from his bedroom. The shift in breakfast management meant while the timing was perhaps not as precise, Will was granted new insight into the Ripper’s morning exercise regimes. 

A first he had thought Hannibal was indulging in a brisk pre-dawn stroll, but the sheen of sweat on his brow, which was usually so pale and smooth it resembled a waxwork, and the something in his eyes as he returned, all invigorated and wild, told him that Hannibal was a practised runner.

Upon this observation, Will had waited till Hannibal had passed him and gone to shower, before curling a fist and thumping it down on the countertop, angry at finding yet another point set against any attempt he might make to escape.

By the time Hannibal had sat for breakfast, fresh and neat and refined, Will had likewise composed himself.

It was nice to be able to dictate at least one of his meals, and though the breakfast choices were limited, Hannibal seemed willing to purchase whatever will asked for, which meant once a week will could have a fry up of sausages (still vegetarian) and baked beans, with hash browns and mushrooms and toast.

He did his best to ignore Hannibal when his tone turned indulgent or overly appreciative over the matter of breakfast, refusing to allow him making him feel like cooking for his capturer was an honour. It gave him some vague sense of control, reclaim some of his independence, and he would not let Hannibal belittle his new found hobby.

More importantly however, it gave him run of the kitchen, and the assortment of sharp blades and heavy pans.

***

Will had washed up, and in clearing away the kitchen table seen that Hannibal was sitting by the fire, reading one of his heftier tomes.

His heart started to pound, as he very carefully lifted the solid granite pestle and mortar set from a cupboard, curling his fingers round the stone edge so that it would make no sound as he let it rest on the countertop. 

His hands shook, and he sternly told himself to stop, lest he blow his best chance at rendering Hannibal harmless so that he could set in motion a proper escape.

It’d had been weeks since he had been taken, months most likely, and though Hannibal still moved with a swift sure grace, Will liked to think that through his own passivity he’d earned a lapse in Hannibal’s alertness.

It hadn’t been easy, cooking for the cannibal. Even if Hannibal had done nothing so much as raise his voice, Will could see now the Ripper peering out from dark eyes. The way he’d cut vegetables, so sure of himself and the edge of the knife, the way he’d rearrange books to his liking, just so. The way that if there was anything in the fridge or pantry that did not meet his standards, he was prone to throwing the offending item out with such sudden violence Will could see how the Ripper had similarly removed people that had somehow upset his mood.

Though never directed at Will, it still alarmed him to see the possible fate in store for him. He would probably not even be aware the exact moment he crossed an unseen line or uttered some throwaway comment, till it was met with terrible repercussion. 

Though he found he could speak with Hannibal and hold up his end of a half-way decent discussion, he found himself feeling more and more unstable, like the ground he stood upon was unsteady. He knew he’d have to make a move sooner rather than later, lest he lose his nerve… or lose the will to disrupt the situation.

It was tempting to leave things as they were, and avoid inciting Hannibal’s darker side. Will ate heartily, slept well, and boredom was the biggest of his complaints. He suspected that this was Hannibal’s goal in such elaborate set up; to lull him into routine and acceptance. 

It grated against him that Hannibal would think him so willing to just give up.

There had been times he’d wanted to lash out with a balled fist, or screamed a string of curses at the infuriatingly serene psychopath. He’d tempered himself with promises that biting his tongue would prove more useful in the long run. Then lay awake at night thinking of vicious retorts all the same.

Now though, he felt ready as he would ever be. 

He set the tap running to mask the sound of his footsteps, and brought the mortar to his chest, its weight hindering his ability to carry it. He left the kitchen, keeping his feet light and steady, and crept up behind Hannibal’s chair. 

He was aware he was hardly breathing, trying so desperately to not be heard. He lifted the mortar, and primed himself to bring it down upon Hannibal’s head.

He was aware the blow could well be lethal, and the thought of causing another death made him hesitate, arms shaking with the effort of holding up the heavy mortar.

By the time he had blinked, Hannibal was moving. It was hard to follow what happened next, the sequence blurred, his mind distracted and unable to piece together events as quickly as they occurred.

His arm was grasped, hard, fingers so tight they ground the bones of his wrist against one another. His centre of balance shifted backwards, fast. He then felt the punch which had staggered him, aimed at his solar plexus, forcing air he could not afford to lose form his lungs. He felt the mortar slip from his hands. Hannibal was on him now, driving him into the wall, spinning him so he faced the pale painted surface. Something kicked his foot aside, so his weight fell against the wall. His arm was gripped tight, and now bent round to twist up his back, his shoulder creaking in protest. A great clash, as the mortar hit the hardwood, and though he could not see, he could feel it vibrate the floorboards.

It’d have broken the bones of his foot if it had landed upon it, but thankfully the heavy stone had missed.

All he had to worry about now was a slightly breathless mass murderer, having caught Will Graham in the act of trying to kill him, leaning against his back and holding him immobile.


	10. Chapter 10

Will thrashed against the wall, and tried to dislodge Hannibal from his back by pushing with knees and his one free arm. The grip on his captured arm tightened, and pushed upwards, making him gasp in pain.

“Now now, none of that. Be still.”

Breath that stuttered in his throat drawn by desperate lungs stopped altogether as Hannibal leant in. He could hear the inhale, feel his hair shift slightly as Hannibal oh-so carefully sniffed him. The ‘ah’ on the exhale was like the sound one might make when stepping out of a shower and wrapping oneself in a warm fully towel, or reclaiming a five minute break for a hot drink in the midst of some chaotic crisis.

Will answered with a soft noise of protest, fighting to stay calm as his failure and the probable outcome caught up with him. He did not hold much hope for his survival now.

He bowed his head, and slumped against the wall. 

“Better.” Hannibal said, his mouth so close to Will’s ear he could feel the breath behind each word. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten your training…. It was somewhat tiresome waiting for you to launch your inevitable escape attempt.” 

Will did not struggle, as Hannibal continued; “Not a bad effort at all… If I am honest, it might have even worked had I not been anticipating it. You are to be commended on your choice of weapon, heavy, formidable. If not rendered unconscious outright, then I’d have definitely been stunned, allowing for a second blow.”

Hannibal’s tone was warm, and seemed to be genuinely complimenting Will on his efforts to kill him. Will strained round to see, half expecting to see mockery and malice in Hannibal’s face. Instead, close up chestnut eyes and an approving smile filled his vision.

Hannibal inhaled again, his eyes slipping shut as if sampling some rare and expensive delicacy. Will closed his eyes, like a mirror reflected, though his expression was not nearly so content. He wondered if Hannibal could smell his defeat. He wondered if Hannibal would make it quick. He did not have to wonder to know that Hannibal would eat him, cooking choice cuts in his kitchen in celebration of his victory.

And then Hannibal Lecter let him go.

Will’s legs had not been briefed that they’d be weight bearing so soon, and he stumbled, leaning into the wall for support, but no longer held there.

He twisted to see Hannibal take two deliberate steps away, neatly avoiding the mortar lying upon its side on the floor. The increased distance did not stop him scrambling backwards himself, clumsy and confused, and relying upon the wall to stop him from collapsing to the ground.

He stared, as Hannibal clasped his hands in front, and waited patiently for Will to catch his breath, too disheartened to launch another attack, too frightened to turn his back and try to run. He had no doubt each option would have ended disastrously, but it left him with no course of action left to him, save to wait and see what Hannibal would do next.

“There really is no need to be so fearful William. I will not hurt you.”

Will was taken by surprise by the laugh that sprung from his tight lungs, short and sharp and without mirth. “I find that hard to believe….” He did not move from his place by the wall, body coiled like a spring, the tension vibrating through his bones.

Hannibal opened his hands, letting them fall to his sides. “Then allow me to show you.”

He walked, keeping distance so as not to startle the high-strung profiler, to his bedroom, and opened the lock. Will could not see the numbers pressed, did not even think to try, so perplexed at Hannibal’s response. He had thought there would be blood, and death to follow his escape attempt should it fail, but Hannibal seemed calm and at ease, as if not fazed by how close he had come to having his head staved in.

Hannibal’s bedroom door was left wide open, and Hannibal himself stood in the door frame, watching to see whether Will would follow.

Will only glanced briefly towards the front door, knowing that there was no freedom and escape to be had while Hannibal was still standing and able to track him down. The kitchen too, with knives he could in theory use for protection, seemed unappealing, now that he’d seen for himself the speed and ease with which Hannibal had disarmed and incapacitated him.

Minutes ticked by, Will unable to force his feet forwards, fear choking his every breath. it was Hannibal, with a very slight cough, indicating his impatience, that broke the standstill, and Will was able to bring himself to walk towards the door, if only to avoid upsetting the Ripper further.

Hannibal stepped aside to let Will pass, and it was with great effort he did not freeze as he brushed past, entering Hannibal’s room for the first time.

Stolen glances from outside the window did not do the room justice. It was rich and decadent, and tastefully arranged that each piece of dark polished wooden furniture stood apart, the colours harmonised as if the bed and dresser and desk and even the frames of the door and picture frames had all originated from the same forest. It would not have surprised Will to learn that they had been, given Hannibal’s particular tastes and abundant wealth.

Movement behind him, and Will turned, quick and nervous, heart resuming its frantic flurry within his chest. He saw that Hannibal was merely pointing to the desk, angled that Will could not have hoped to see the laptop and sleek mobile phone sitting against the wall from the window.

“You have my permission to try the phone, and the computer.”

Will’s eyes found it hard to focus on the device, even as he held it in hands that would not stop shaking, afraid to take his eyes from Hannibal even for a moment. He carefully prodded at it, and was greeted by a screen requesting a password. He gave a slight sigh, and, even though he knew the laptop would be the same, he still waited for the start-up screen to show him that this too, was password protected.

He could see what Hannibal was doing; showing him that even if he could somehow find the courage to make another attempt, even if he did somehow successfully knock Hannibal out, he’d not be able to use phone or computer.

He closed his eyes, partly to hide the fact they had started to tear up in frustration and fear, partly because if Hannibal did take that moment to snap his neck or plunge blade into his chest, at least he would no longer be trapped.

No attack came, but instead a guiding hand upon his elbow, encouraging him to turn. The touch was light, more suggestion than demand, but Will still shifted away from the sensation, unable to tolerate the feeling of Hannibal’s hands on him.

He kept his eyes shut, but allowed Hannibal to position him in front of the full length mirror, the doctor standing behind his shoulder gazing forward, so close Will could feel as Hannibal breathed, slow and steady.

“Look, and tell me what you see.”

Will shook his head. He’d been resistant using his empathy to see what Hannibal might have in store for him, too frightened to know his fate. He also did not want to spend any more time delving into Hannibal’s mind, for fear that the boundaries between his thoughts and those of the Ripper become twisted together, that he would not know himself as his personality was consumed by the cannibal’s.

“Will you let fear keep you from seeing the truth? I had thought you braver than that.”

Will did not feel brave. He felt his heart pound too quick, and his breath too shallow. He felt the panic within him bubble and burst out in brief trembling shivers, and he felt his guts clench tight. 

He felt fingers wrap around his wrist, and his eyes flashed open in alarm.

The reflection showed Hannibal’s smirk, as the dirty trick worked, but his hand remained upon Will’s; gentle. The mirror image looking back at him was tired, with shining, sallow eyes and hair grown too long to be tamed. He saw from his reflection that Will Graham did not have another escape attempt left in him. 

Reluctant, but sensing that Hannibal would insist and lacking the strength to fight back, Will lifted his free hand to remove his glasses. He hesitated only briefly as he removed the lenses, and cast his view forwards to take in himself through Hannibal’s eyes.

“What do you see?” Hannibal asked, the curiosity evident in his voice. 

“You do not want to kill me.” Will said, finally. Hannibal nodded in confirmation.

His voice was not relieved, his posture remaining tense, as he processed what he saw.

“I am a source of interest to you, something unusual and curious. You are fascinated.” The conflict between how Hannibal saw him, and his own self esteem had hushed his voice, as if he could not understand the rapt attention he’d earned from the doctor. “You want to keep me, _own_ me…”

With that Will tried to move back, turning his head away. Hannibal stepped forwards, his feet solidly planted that Will was forced towards the mirror, the hand over his not tightening, but instead squeezing as if to reassure.

“Wait. Look deeper. There is something else.”

Will, with nowhere else he could go, trapped between shining glass and the Ripper, clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see any more. Bad enough that he’d found something worse than being craved up for the dinner table, he dreaded to think what else Hannibal desired. He already had seen that the Ripper wanted his mind and his body, Will worried there would be nothing left once Hannibal was done with him.

“Come now, you feared that I would harm you, and was proved wrong. Trust me that there is more you need to see.” 

Trust was not exactly forthcoming, but Will despite his convictions, was indeed not dead yet. Exhausted to the bone, and the idea of taking on Hannibal’s composure so very tempting when he considered his frantic heart-rate, Will opened his eyes. 

The power Hannibal exuded was intoxicating, and served to let Will stand a little straighter. Hannibal shifted behind, moving near to his shoulder, and Will did not flinch. There was no need, Hannibal would not hurt him without reason.

“So, my dear Will. How do I see you? Just some curious keepsake of my time in Baltimore?”

“No… you think I’m special. Something to be treasured, taken care of.” Will’s eyes widened, “….Attractive, and desirable….”

“Yes…” Hannibal whispered, almost directly into Will’s ear, and the single word caused him to shiver.

“… but not to be forced. I may not be able to escape, but I can still say no. You don’t want a broken shell, you want _me_.”

Hannibal lifted Will’s hand up, and smiled at the mirror. “Exactly.” He said, and lightly kissed the back of his hand.

Blinking, the feel of lips against his skin bringing him back to himself, Will pulled away, swaying unsteady. Hannibal did not move to stop him, as he backed away out of the bedroom, face heated with a blush and head still swimming with thoughts and feelings that were not his own.

****

When called for dinner after the failed attack, Will was shy, emerging from his room like a nervous animal. 

Hannibal had served the starter; French onion soup, without comment, and as Will finally sat down after long minutes of deliberation, and Hannibal gave a bright smile.

The attempt to knock him over the head with the mortar had been welcome, Hannibal’s patience for the consultant to make his move starting to wane. 

Hannibal found it refreshing to have reminded Will of his sharp mind, Will no longer having reason to act out with his personality and pretend passivity. That Will had thought he’d be so easily taken in by the empath’s charade of compliance had been mildly insulting, and Hannibal had already started to contemplate how he might orchestrate scenarios that might galvanise Will into action, before he took proper offence.

Dinner, a zesty couscous ensemble bright with yellow peppers and mange tout, was eaten without incident, and by dessert Will seemed to have settled, and finished his crème brule with hidden spiced plums under crackling sugar with obvious appreciation. No words were passed, but there was a feeling of the tension ebbing from the atmosphere, like the bright, clean air after a thunderstorm.

Thick rich brandy, the syrupy texture chosen to compliment the cream of the dessert, was served by the fireplace, and it was almost as if the events of the morning had not occurred. 

Over the next few days, conversations between them were stilted and wary, but more open, more honest, as if Will had seen that he could not deceive. 

Occasionally, Will would grow fearful and withdrawn, and Hannibal had become practiced at seeing almost the exact moment when the empath was thinking of the discarded carcasses like confetti back in Maryland, and that such carnage had been wrought by the same hand that served him delicately spiced lentils, or deliciously fresh pesto stirred through pasta. 

Similarly, Will would leave, at speed, whenever he was sharpening the kitchen knives. It was an activity he partook in more often than was strictly good for the metal, but the sheer pleasure of little to none resistance as he parted stripes of meat was more than worth stressing the blades, and having to replace them more often .

Hannibal did nothing to reassure during these bouts of grisly reminisce, already having had decided that the more uncertain Will was, the more likely he would be to tune into his empathic talents to assess the situation and if he was in danger.

The more Will saw him, the sooner Will would see that he truly meant his houseguest no harm. As well as, of course, letting Hannibal influence and mindset start to seem more reasonable, as seen through the Ripper’s eyes. 

The moral objections to murder, as shored up by his time working with the police, would take time to erode, but Hannibal was in no rush. 

After all, Will was clearly not going anywhere.


	11. Chapter 11

The rhythmic sound of knife clicking against chopping board, as Will chopped soft fruit for the mornings breakfast, was interrupted by Hannibal returning from his morning run. He stood at the kitchen, and Will was quietly pleased that his efforts were not distracted. Whilst still far below Hannibal’s culinary skill level, repetition and practice had improved his confidence in the kitchen, and his knife moved with speed and precision he was proud of.

He had not given up on the notion of escape, but had resigned himself to wait for opportunity. Hannibal’s exceptional degree of planning and preparation could not account for every eventuality, and sooner or later something would give Will the edge he needed. Till then, he kept careful watch of his surroundings, monitoring for change, and kept track of Hannibal’s routines and habits, that he’d be prepared when he did choose to make a second attempt.

He puffed a breath at the strands of hair that had hung across his eyes from his face, and continued to cut as the Chesapeake Ripper approached, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

Will jerked his head upwards as he realised Hannibal was waiting for him to finish, and saw the man frowning. He glanced at the fruit, and could find no fault with the near uniform segments of strawberry and peach, and gathered his brows in confusion.

Hannibal lifted a hand, and Will allowed him to flick the hair from his face, the source of his displeasure now evident. He had grown used to these frequent gestures, and no longer felt the need to flinch away or wash himself afterwards. He knew Hannibal would not hurt, or force himself upon him. They were completely safe, if rather invasive into his personal space, but the brief bouts human contact seemed normal, after so long isolated from anyone but the doctor.

He supposed he should be more alarmed at that, but Hannibal had already spoke of the need for human beings to have contact in their life when Will had raised the issue, and it seemed natural that even the cannibal was no exception. Stubbornness stopped him from reacting, refusing to let Hannibal cause him upset over such a small thing as skin to skin contact. 

“Your hair has grown rather long.”

Will nodded in agreement, and scratching at his chin, covered in a layer of hair that had lengthened to an uncomfortable itchy fuzz. “Yeah. The beard as well is getting a bit unruly.”

Hannibal cocked his head to the side, which Will had learnt was a sign that the man was contemplating the wording of his next statement. Hannibal did not like to be interrupted while he was thinking, so Will set aside the knife and waited.

“Would you permit me to give you a shave?”

Will laughed, but with a sarcastic edge to the sound. “Do you think I’ve lost my mind? That I would let a killer anywhere near my face with a razorblade? Absolutely not!”

Hannibal stepped back, affronted but not offended. “A pity. A proper shave can be a very relaxing and enjoyable experience. Perhaps if you were to think of it as an exercise in trust?”

“I highly doubt _you_ can claim therapeutic value in any activity when wielding a very sharp instrument, Hannibal…. But a shave would be nice. Let me do it myself, I am more than able.”

Hannibal tilted his head to the side again, this time with pursed lips. “There is a reason I did not include shaving supplies with your toiletries…”

Will sighed, and held up the knife he’d been using to chop the fruit. “Really? You’d not permit me an inch long blade, but you’ll happily let me at the craving knives?” he waggled it upright, closer to Hannibal’s face than he intended, but it illustrated his point nicely. If Hannibal was afraid about arming Will with the tools to do harm, he ought to have placed locks upon the kitchen drawers. Besides, he’d learnt that Hannibal was too damned fast to attack and hope to succeed.

“That is a puntilla knife, not a blade for craving.” Hannibal said, almost instinctively correcting the mislabel, and not blinking from the shine of metal so close to his eyes. “Besides. It is not for my safety I am concerned.”

Will paused, and lowered the knife, not caring what it was called. It’d been the first knife he’d come across in the drawer, and seemed suited to chop fruit. The sharpness of the blade had made the task simple, and the point nimble to pry out troublesome pips, and whilst he had no doubt Hannibal would have preferred him to use the correct knife for fruit he drew the line at following Hannibal near obsessive examples of kitchen etiquette. 

Hannibal’s delicate but definite allusion to suicide got Will thinking. The thought had crossed his mind, on more than one occasion, and he suddenly wondered if it was not a fortunate piece of foresight that he had had no such temptation in his rooms during the long hours locked in.

No doubt the psychiatrist would be keenly interested to hear of the details and frequency of his suicidal ideation, but Hannibal would just have to be satisfied with silence on the subject.

He shrugged, “Guess you’ll just have to put up with the shaggy dog look then.”

“Or you could allow me to remedy the problem. You did not grow your beard before, so I assume that your preference is to be clean-shaven…”

“My preference is not to have my throat slit, thank you very much.”

_There_ was the offence, as Hannibal narrowed his eyes and straightening his collar, “Do you really think I’d do something so crass?”

Will tipped his head forwards and spoke quietly, “…no.”

“Then what is the issue?”

Will shrugged again. 

“If you cannot think of reason, other than unfounded fear, perhaps you ought to reconsider?”

Hannibal had rarely been so persistent, and Will could sense the want radiating from the other man. That frightened him more than the thought of a blade against his skin, but up until that point he’d been doing an admirable job of masking his discomfort at Hannibal’s fleeting but frequent glancing touches. Hannibal need not know how easily he could set Will’s nerves on end, and he would rather cut his own tongue than admit that Hannibal’s statement of attraction had put his thoughts and mind in a muddle.

He weighted up the outcomes of refusing or allowing Hannibal to shave him. It would certainly help to hide his aversion to touch. He could blame his current state of unease upon the blade, surely, and it would be nice to be free of the clutter of hair on his face.

“Fine. After breakfast.” He said, and tried not to be alarmed at the way Hannibal’s face spilt into a smiled in response.

***

Upon the table was a bowl of water, and aftershave in a bottle that was thin and dark, with silvery script that was hard to read, and no doubt Hannibal’s own brand. A bristling badger brush sat beside a tub of shaving cream, and fresh towels over the back of the desk-chair Hannibal had apparently pulled from his own room. Will found it interesting (and more than a little reassuring) that Hannibal had decided against choosing to shave Will in his room where the bathroom would have been claustrophobic, nor the dining room, where Will would have struggled to forget that Hannibal was a murderer and a cannibal, and holding a very sharp razorblade near his face.

The fireplace crackled softly, and laid out for inspection in its case, was Hannibal’s razor, gleaming and well-tended. The hinge had the barest resistance as Will opened the blade up, the polished pale ivory smooth and cool against his palm. No safety cage, just the glint of honed edge, and the flutter of alarm returned to Will’s nervous system.

He forced it down, and replaced the blade upon the velvet innards of the case. He glanced across to Hannibal, who had rolled his sleeves up and was carrying a damp towel that steamed, even in the fire-warm air.

“Please, sit.”

After one long slow breath, that did not really do much to ease his anxiety, Will took his seat, leather and wood creaking under his weight.

“If you’d be so kind as to undo the first two buttons of your shirt.”

Quietly appreciating that Hannibal was allowing him the task, Will slipped the buttons loose, trying not to mind that Hannibal’s gaze was transfixed upon the pit of his throat.

“Normally I would have another hot towel to place over your eyes, but I suspect that for the moment, you’d not appreciate the loss of vision.”

Hannibal gently laid the damp towel, almost too warm to be tolerated, but cooling rapidly to a pleasant heat, across the lower part of Will’s face, encouraging Will to tip his head back to keep it in place.

“The heat will open the pores, and allow for a better shave.” Hannibal explained, as he picked up a stout cup and the badger brush, whisking a small dollop of shaving cream with practiced ease to make a thick lather.

Will could not respond, without risking disturbing the hot towel, but his eyes followed Hannibal’s movement, as he drew close. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, as towel was cast aside and a fresh towel draped over his chest. With skilled and confident motions, the foam was applied to his face, in tight little swirls. It smelled of coconut and felt smooth and luxurious against his skin. 

Hannibal was about to use his fingers under Will’s chin to guide his head further back, when Will tipped his head without the need for touch, eyes bright and jaw tight. Hannibal only smiled softly, and finished lathering Will’s cheeks and neck.

Will knew he was radiating tension, as Hannibal picked up the razor, but he also noticed that Hannibal was purposefully slowing his movements. He stood, waiting for permission, which Will granted with a little nod.

Hannibal’s hand was light, the pressure barely there, as he started to draw the razor down Will’s cheek. He used the towel resting upon Will’s chest to clear the blade before each fresh stroke, and his movements were slow and rhythmic.

Will did not relax throughout, but he could see how under different circumstances, the experience might be enjoyable, rather than a chore of personal hygiene. Or in his case, desperate attempt to prove to Hannibal that he’d neither be cowed nor seduced by the intimate attentions.

Hannibal, however, seemed to be enjoying himself. His rapt focus upon the task did not waver, nor did he seem to mind that Will knuckles were turning white as the blood leeched from them.

He reapplied the shaving foam, and repeated the entire process of stroking the razor down Will’s face. Will could feel the slide of metal against his skin, cutting so close without so much as a scratch, and he allowed Hannibal’s other hand to guide his head this way and that, as the last remnants of his beard were removed.

Hannibal stepped back to admire his work, giving the razor one final clean with the edge of the towel before replacing it in its case. He dipped a fresh towel in the bowl of water, and dabbed it against Will’s face, the water cold and refreshing, the towel across his chest catching the stray drips as water ran freely down his clean-shaven face.

“There now. That is much better, don’t you agree?”

Will lifted a hand, and was surprised at the smoothness. Hannibal had done an excellent job. Which left him with a troublesome conundrum; did he praise Hannibal’s’ efforts, and invite him to add shaving to their regular routine, or dismiss the results inferior to his own efforts should he be granted a shaving set of his own?

It had been reassuring to have proof that Hannibal would indeed not cause him harm, even when presented with perfect opportunity. When he thought back onto the bodies torn apart across Baltimore, it was difficult to believe that he’d not suffer same fate, despite what he’d seen through Hannibal’s eyes.

On the other hand, he had seen that Hannibal had been exhibiting a degree of self-restraint throughout. He had restricted himself to the light brush of fingertips to guide, but Will knew that he had wanted to touch more. He was not sure he wanted to test Hannibal’s gentlemanly resolve.

“It makes a nice change from an electric shave.” He said carefully, though he suspected Hannibal had already seen his internal conflict through his delay in answering.

The fleeting expression of disappointment was quickly replaced by acceptance, and Hannibal gestured to the aftershave as he tidied the rest of the supplies away.

The harsh liquid stung, but not as much as the peculiar sense of unease at upsetting Hannibal that hung in his chest. He breathed deep of the fragrance, sandalwood and woody herbs, cumin or cardamom or something equally dry. 

Will cleared his throat, and made an attempt to make amends. 

“It’s an interesting scent, your aftershave. Better than my old brand for sure. What is the spice, I can’t quite tell?”

Hannibal looked up from the bundle of used towels, and gave a soft smile; “It is fennel seed. I prefer it over the more traditional bergamot or rosemary, I feel it has a more grounding aroma. And lighter, less an assault on the nose and more a compliment.”

Will gave a little nod, finally able to place the spice. He rubbed at his chin, getting used to the absence of coarse hair. “Thank you.” he added, meaning both gratitude for the shave, and for respecting Will’s boundaries.

The next day, an electric razor was added to Will’s pile of appliances. As well as a bottle of the aftershave of his own.


	12. Chapter 12

Will could tell right away that he was dreaming, by the clarity of his vision though he could not feel the frames of his glasses on his face.

It was dark, barely lit by unidentifiable source, and he was upon his back. His arms were stretched above his head, and held against any attempt to lower them. He was naked, but that did not distress him as much as the pressure upon his wrists, and the fact that he was strewn across Hannibal’s dining table.

He arched against polished wood, to see what was holding him, and met with large black eyes staring back. The stag’s eyes were inhuman and wide, and while not unintelligent, they were overshadowed by dark primal urges.

The beast had its head bowed, and its long curving antlers were stabbing into Will’s wrists, holding him captive, sharpened bone clawing into his flesh when he tried to pull away.

It huffed, slow and steady, and Will could feel its breath against his skin.

He could not move, though fear made him fight against the horn, and he smelt the sharp tang of blood in the air as the stag dug deeper into his wrists as a result.

Familiar footsteps, and he stilled, and watched with wide eyes as Hannibal approached the table. He wore a dinner jacket and tie, and was sharpening a long kitchen knife in long smooth movements, a stroke per step. The shrill sound stung Will’s ears, and felt like the blade was being dragged across his very bones.

He tried to speak, but Hannibal laid the knife across his lips like a shushing finger, and he stilled for fear of cutting himself open on the knife edge.   
“Hush, my dearest William. Hush.”

Harsh ragged breaths through flared nostrils were the only sounds Will dared to make.

The knife was set down beside his head, and Hannibal gave the stag a courteous nod for its assistance in restraining his next victim. Will shook his head rapidly, eyes filing with hopeless tears, as fingers started to trail across his naked body, detached and efficient. They skimmed across skin, finding a scar here, there, from various misadventures in his past. Hannibal’s gaze followed his fingers, paying no heed to the shivering that had gripped Will’s body, or the sheen of cold sweat starting to form across his skin.

His genitals were handled with what he imagined was professional indifference, deserving of no more attention than the skin of his knee, or curve of his hip.

The cataloguing caress was halted, and a single digit ran along the raise of his collar bone, where he was sure Hannibal was be able to feel his quickening heartbeat pulse against the skin. Hannibal lifted his hand entirely, and Will watched as he delicately sucked upon the tip of his finger, tasting the sweat he’d gathered in the ridges of his fingerprint.

Then, he returned to the body laid out before him, and with thumb and slightly damp forefinger, started to pinch, first the flesh of Will’s upper arm, then ribs, then the soft skin of his stomach.

At first Will didn’t understand, till he caught sight of Hannibal’s face, focused and intense… as he appraised the meat before him.

“Oh no.. Please, no…” he whispered, forgetting the knife and instruction to be quiet.

Hannibal did not act as if he had heard, and Will felt certain that the Ripper’s last victims’ final pleas had also fell upon deaf dismissive ears.

Hannibal straightened, expression disappointed, and with a causal wave, dismissed the feathered stag. It gave a snort, and lifted its head, and Will could see the tips of its antlers stained dark with blood. It backed away, hooves clicking against the floor, its pace unhurried. 

Wrists stinging but finally released, Will pulled them into to his chest, pulling blood trails across his skin. He gathered himself up upon the table, curled to hide his body from the fully dressed man beside him. When Hannibal made no further move, he backed away, sliding across the table till he reached the furthest edge. When still no gesture or words of command were issued, he stared at Hannibal, face creased in confusion.

Hannibal looked infinitely patent and calm. “You are not ready yet.” He said simply.

***

Waking up in a frantic flurry of panic and fear was not unusual, and Will grimaced at his sweat-sodden bed-sheets. The details of the dream had already begun to fade, but for some reason the thud of his heartbeat was slow to abate and return to normal. He could remember the feathered stag, and Hannibal, and he felt a lingering sense of dread cling to him. He rubbed his wrists absently. 

Unsettled, he could not find sleep again that night, and after tossing and turning in all directions, decided that he’d forsake the night, and make start to breakfast.

Hannibal seemed surprised, but not upset, at the elaborate spread that greeted him when he rose, dressed for his usual morning run. A braided loaf of lemon bread, sprinkled with poppy seed, and a bowl of lightly toasted oat muesli with chopped walnuts, apricots and drizzled honey. 

Will was aware that his sweet tooth had not been eradicated, but refined. He still chose his breakfast meals to accommodate his tastes, but also fare that would be acceptable to Hannibal, whose tastes were for the rich and savoury. The crunch of nuts and seeds seemed to suit Hannibal, and he made no comment upon the sticky layer of honey Will added to his own bowl.

By the time they had finished, and drank their coffee, Will’s nerves had settled somewhat, and he could no longer felt the phantom sting at his wrists.


	13. Chapter 13

Will’s door shut and he heard the locking mechanism clunk into place. It was a familiar regime by now, and he had long since stopped checking the door to see if by some miracle the lock had not engaged. He lay back on his bed, and switched on the kindle, ready to continue the current book he was steadily working his way through.

Between the varied array of books available to him, and the music player, the time spent locked in the bedroom was tolerable. Usually, the electronic distractions were enough to keep his mind from ruminating pointlessly over worries and memories and concerns.

But not this time.

Hannibal had continued to go out frequently, even though the homestead seemed to Will’s admittedly untrained eye, complete and lacking for nothing. The kitchen was well stocked, and furniture filled the living spaces. Hannibal had painted some of the white walls with chocolate tones, deep reds and warm tan browns, which made it seem less like a model showroom and more like a home.

It had been weeks since Will had noticed a new addition to his surroundings, yet Hannibal still went out more than was necessary for foodstuffs and supplies. To compound the matter, when Hannibal returned, there was not always a new item to show for his so-called shopping trips. 

With growing dread, Will wondered if Hannibal was indulging in old habits; stalking hapless individuals to kill and devour and display.

While his own meals were always vegetarian, Hannibal himself had not forsaken meat. He often had a thick cut of flesh on the side of his plate, or sliced thinly on top. Sometimes he had prepared two separate meals altogether; something meat-free for Will, and for himself braised beef or roast shank of lamb. 

Will did not have to ask the origins of the meat upon his dinner companion’s plate anymore, he could usually tell now whether it had come from a butcher, or from Hannibal’s freezer down in the garage. There was a sense of ritual when Hannibal prepared and served meat that had once had a name and passport, something Will found both fascinating and repulsive.

Flavours and textures would be designed around the particular cut, and while not always centrepiece to the dish, the meat would play pivotal role in the composition. Marinades and sauces were balanced drop by drop, and only the vegetables that met his lofty standard would be used; the rest discarded. Hannibal would taste frequently from bubbling pots and pans to ensure every part of the plate harmonized to his satisfaction. The results were artfully displayed, and even though Will knew what it was, he’d more than once found his mouth watering.

When Hannibal ate, his eyes would close, and he would take his time over every mouthful. Conversely, once Will had gleamed that Hannibal was partaking of his particularly gruesome pastime, he would hurry to finish and excuse himself, so that he did not have to hear the soft sounds of pleasure that he was not sure if Hannibal realised he made, nor the look of near-rapture upon the Ripper’s face as he consumed human flesh.

He did not raise the issue, and was grateful that Hannibal did not either. Whilst he could tell himself it was because he did not wish to incur Hannibal’s wrath, truth be told it was plainly wilful denial in order to keep the peace. Hannibal made for pleasant company, even knowing what he was, and Will found himself dreadfully bored on the evenings when on principal he had forgone sitting by the fire, or going out to walk with the cannibal. Morally, it would be harder to allow himself to be in proximity with a killer if he knew Hannibal to be still killing.

The thought, however, would not so easily be pushed from his mind, now that he had reason to suspect that Hannibal was using the time that Will was locked in his room to commit murder. Duty, drilled into him by Crawford, demanded action, and Will knew he’d not find peace till he had asked Hannibal questions they had both been trying to avoid.

***

Footsteps, and the sound of the keypad being activated, and Will’s door was opened. He steadied himself, and walked out, going straight past Hannibal to the kitchen, where he looked hopefully to see if there was a bag of groceries, or new book for the shelves, _anything_ , to indicate Hannibal had had innocent reason for the excursion. 

He could see nothing new.

He sat at the dining table, perhaps not the best place for confrontation, but the polished wood felt solid and grounding, and he could rest his hands on the surface to stop them from shaking. He waited, till Hannibal had changed from the disguise he wore when out, and returned to the main living area. Will coughed to get his attention.

“Yes?” Hannibal asked politely, seeing Will set up with steely look in his eye. He stood, and did not take a seat. The height difference made Will briefly reconsider, but he reasoned that he’d find no equal footing with Hannibal regardless of where he sat or stood, as the whole house and everything in it was property of the doctor. 

“Where were you today?”

“I was out on an errand.” There was warning edge to Hannibal’s voice, deterring further enquiry. Will pressed on.

“What sort of errand?”

“I do not see that it is of any concern of yours what sort of errands I see fit to pursue.”

He filled his lungs, and fixed Hannibal with hard look, taking in the chestnut colour of his eyes, the way his stance and expression had shifted to something more rigid. 

“I’ll be blunt then, are you hunting people?”

Hannibal drew back, as if surprised that Will would have the audacity to bring up a topic that by mutual unspoken agreement they had decided not to discuss.

Will flexed his fingers against the table, trying not to dwell on how much he secretly wanted Hannibal to deny the accusation, on how he desperately wanted his doubts to be unfounded.

Hannibal pursed his lips. “What if I am?” he asked quietly, and the lack of refute struck disappointment deep into Will’s being.

He swallowed, knowing what he had rehearsed he’d say next, but finding the words difficult to voice. 

“I want you to stop.”

“I beg your pardon?” Incredulous, and Will might have taken satisfaction at seeing Hannibal so shocked under different circumstances.

“I want you to stop killing people.” he lifted his head, and his voice softened as his tone turned into a plea “I… I cannot stand by and let you hurt people Hannibal. I just can’t.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, the shadow of his frown darkening the colour of his eyes till they looked near-black. “You have no place to put such constraint upon my… activities.”

Will sighed, already resigned to Hannibal’s answer. “…please?” he said, without much hope of a changed response.

“No.”

With a sad nod, Will pushed himself up from the table, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes as he walked past and into his bedroom. From the threshold, he spoke, gaze downwards and voice frim if disappointed.

“I cannot physically stop you, you proved that well enough when I tried to take you down with the mortar. But I can and will protest. I’ll be staying in here, till you change your mind.” He wavered a little then, realising the massive commitment he had made for himself. He breathed deep, knowing that given the situation, this was the best he could do, and that it was _right_. 

“However long that takes.” He added, and shut the door.


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal watched the door close, and was sorely tempted to go and force it open. Things had been going so well, and there had been a growing sense of peace and acceptance between himself and Will. He recalled fondly that Will had permitted him to shave him, and the closeness and feel of soft skin under his fingertips had been heady and heartening.

This sudden setback seemed entirely unnecessary.

True, Hannibal had been going out more than he had originally promised, but that was because he’d grown attached to the way that Will would look so very happy when he returned. He could pretend that it was himself that invoked such expression, but he fully acknowledged that for the time being, it was more likely the release from Will’s deliberately bland bedroom that caused the empath’s smile to widen and eyes to shine a shade brighter.

He felt it unfair that his outings to various tearooms (as well as the hunting trips he’d been accused of) had caused such disruption and upset to the carefully balanced dynamics, and that he’d be deprived of Will’s dry wit and visage of his contentment.

Will had been smiling more, and often laughed without having to resort to self-deprecating humour. Hannibal had marked it as measure of success that when taken from such poisonous environs of his workplace and poor choice of colleagues, Will had flourished. Less afraid that his own mind would tear his sanity apart, he was more forthcoming and confident, and a delightful dinner companion. 

Hannibal mourned the loss his houseguest’s presence, but reluctantly decided that any attempt to force resolution upon the situation would be ill advised. He’d just have to wait it out, and see what Will would do next when faced with the dull tomb his room would become when the electrical charge on his music player and kindle ran out.

It would be interesting to see whose will would win out.

***

The music player was the first to run out of charge, even though Will had been carefully rationing his use of the device to keep it running for as long as possible. He gave a soft sigh, and set it down on the counter beside his bed.

Hannibal, who had yet to say anything about his sit-in protest, had been leaving meals outside his room, and collecting the cleared plates. Will had been worried that Hannibal would attempt to draw him out through hunger, but apparently the cannibal put too much value on decent meals to starve his guest.

Breakfast however, was only a piece of fruit or slice of bread with jam; token to the fact that Will had taken responsibility for the first meal of the day, and that Hannibal had not reclaimed it.

He mourned that he was limited by technology, when a bookshelf of physical books would be a welcome sight, and without the constant pressure of dwindling time and the anxiety it produced. He restricted himself to only reading a chapter of his current book at a time, then turning off the kindle to conserve its charge. He’d then lay upon his bed, and think about the words, trying to let the book fill his mind. When that didn’t work, he’d turn away from the door and try to nap. As a result his sleeping pattern was a mess, and he found himself half-way nocturnal by the fourth day.

He did exercises to distract himself, and exhaust his body to the point that sleep came easy; sit-ups and press-ups and jogging on the spot. He absently wondered what Hannibal made of the odd sounds that must have carried through the door, and the thought had brought brief grin to his face. The shape of his mouth when upturned felt strange and unfamiliar.

During this time, Hannibal had left twice, warning Will before he locked the door. Will had given no response, but listened at the door when Hannibal arrived, and made note that he could hear what sounded like the rustle of bags both times.

His thoughts had started to turn paranoid and unsure, but he’d been prepared for that; so long isolated was sure to turn even the most steady mind to doubt. When he was unable to shut the voice of worry and fear out, he’d take a shower to clear his head, and remind himself why he was subjecting himself to such boredom. That murder was wrong, and he’d not allow Hannibal to continue his gruesome ways without protest. That he had nothing to bargain with, nothing to try and change Hannibal’s mind, other than himself, so that is what he would use.

He’d never felt so much a prisoner.

On the sixth day the kindle died, and he had to catch himself from throwing it across the room in frustration. He turned to the window, to see the feathered stag staring back at him, fogging the glass with its breath. It was dark and blocked out the sun, its antlers casting jagged shadows across the room.

Shocked, and just a little concerned that this was sign his mind was coming apart, he took his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the edge of his shirt. When he replaced them, the stag was gone.

As the sun set, he found that his mood likewise darkened. He could not shake the feeling of dread, of missing something vital.

What if Hannibal was only killing others so that he did not hurt Will, like Hobbs’s murdering those poor girls as substitute for his daughter? That every knife plunged into stomach was meant for him, every cut throat spilled blood that should have been his. What if by denying Hannibal that outlet, he was putting himself in terrible danger?

Will became angry then, and berated himself for being so selfish. He was not a child, nor some poor frightened victim, and though it went against his self-preservation instincts, he could not justify allowing others be killed in his stead. 

He felt better with that rational and reason, felt like he was himself, and morally strong to be able to stick to his beliefs over his own survival.

In the morning, Will went to open the door when he heard Hannibal lay down the tray. The doctor seemed surprised to see Will who till then had been keeping the door shut till he was sure that Hannibal had left, and rose gracefully to his feet, holding the tray out for Will to take. He bore an expression of deep contemplation as he looked Will over, seeing the man in the room standing steadfast and sure.

Will’s hands reached out and took the tray, and then he turned, closing the door behind him, satisfied that Hannibal had seen that he was still as determined as when he started.

Sure enough, shortly after, he heard a knock at his door.

He did not rush to answer, but did walk over and pull the door open, taking only a moment to smooth his hair and straighten his shirt.

Hannibal stood in a decidedly unaggressive manner, dressed in a shirt with lines so sharp they looked like folded paper. His hands were clasped in front, his shoulders relaxed. It was a pose to invite discussion, and Will wondered if Hannibal was going to bow down to Will’s demands, or attempt to talk him round. 

“I have gathered that this… matter… means a great deal to you, and after much deliberation, have decided that it would be rude of me not to respect your beliefs and thus cause you such moral upset.”

If he was honest, Will was surprised, if not a little wary of Hannibal’s change of heart. He had thought it would be long, long weeks before the proud doctor would even contemplate altering his routine for sake of his troublesome houseguest.

“Just so we are clear…” Will could hear his voice creak with disuse, and had to pause to swallow in an attempt to ease the words from his mouth, “this means you will not kill anyone.”

Hannibal gave Will a look that verged upon an eye-roll, as if unimpressed Will found it necessary to be so blunt. He gave a sober nod.

“You have my word that I will not seek to snuff out any life that does not pose direct and imminent threat to my own wellbeing and freedom.”

Will considered, and though he could have no way of knowing if Hannibal’s word was worth any degree of trust, Hannibal at least seemed sincere in his pledge. He could well lie to Will, as he had done back in Baltimore. Deception was not beyond him, he’d been lying for _years_ before he’d been uncovered after all.

Hannibal’s declaration also did not shield those who were seeking the Ripper, or anyone who happened to stumble past his disguise, but it’d be highly unlikely for Hannibal to agree to anything that would put his own survival at risk.

Still, it was better than he had hoped for, and he reasoned to himself that he could always keep watch to ensure that Hannibal was keeping his promise.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked, genuinely curious to what might sway the very particular gentleman.

“When I saw that you would not. Continuing the standoff with your self-opposed confinement would serve no purpose, other than cause stress and friction between us.” Hannibal paused, and tilted his head quizzically, “I trust the resolution pleases you?”

Will nodded slowly. “Yes. Thank you Hannibal.” he said simply. 

Dusting his hands, and expression shifting from serious to something more gentle, Dr Lecter gestured to the dining table. “Excellent. I have prepared something of a celebratory meal, but it is not quite ready yet. I’ll call you when I am serving, as I am sure you will relish the chance to stretch your legs.”

Will gave a nod, and made straight for the front door, his own bedroom window sealed shut and the view having taunted him repeatedly with scenery and fresh air restricted to him. The air and the space renewed his spirit, and he granted himself small and careful congratulation for scoring a significant victory against Hannibal.

Lunch, when it was ready, with a rich stew, almost burgundy in colour, served with crusty bread and warmed butter. He sat down readily to the plateful, but a smell of meat in the air made Will cast a question look to his host. Hannibal simply pointed to his own plate, the same stew, but adorned with large silvers of liver, still pink in the middle.

Will’s heart sank, as he realised that the meat was more than likely human. A test perhaps, or Hannibal’s way of stealing the triumph from Will’s success. His skin felt cold, and he scraped his chair back, intending to leave Hannibal to his grisly ‘celebration’ meal.

“Is there a problem?” Hannibal asked, voice sweet and sinister all at once. 

Will could felt his face twist in disgust. _Monster, remember?_ and Will was surprised to found that he’d almost forgotten.

“Bastard.” He hissed, as he failed to reign in his frustration. There was no victory here, just Hannibal’s meticulous design, and him caught in the middle.

“Careful Will.” Hannibal voice had dropped low, “I may have agreed to curtail my hunting, but you will not deny me the enjoyment of what I already have in stock.” He flashed a smile that showed gleaming teeth, “Besides, it’d be terribly wasteful to forsake the contents of my freezer.”

When Will did not answer, only than to dip his head and scowl at the floor, Hannibal’s voice softened.

“Come now, you must have known I’d not give up something that provides me such pleasure. But, since I will be unable to restock, I will have to greatly restrict my indulgences.” he clicked his tongue thoughtfully, “ Neither fear of the almighty, nor supposed conscience has before managed such a feat. You should take satisfaction in that.”

Will nodded his head grimly, drawing comfort that at least he had hopefully managed to prevent further loss of life, even if Hannibal would continue to dine upon those he had not managed to save. 

He gave a dry laugh, as he realised that after so long chasing him, working through the night, and suffering nightmares when he _had_ been permitted to sleep, Consultant Graham had finally stopped the Ripper.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a bit of animal injury in this next part, but rest assured, the critter will be fine.

Hannibal was pleased that normal routine had been quickly re-established, and Will had come out from his room to prepare breakfast under his own initiative the very next morning.

Though Hannibal was certain he could prepare a more balanced cup of coffee himself, bitterness and roast and scent intertwined to perfection, he found for some reason he could not quite put a name to, he preferred coffee that had been made by Will. He curled round his cup, enjoying the heat of the brew, and the way Will tried to avoid watching him as he sipped with appreciation. 

The self-imposed confinement had left Will restless, and following the end of the standoff, he spent as long as his skin would tolerate outside the house, coming back inside only to warm himself before heading out again. He was bolder, the moral victory bolstering his confidence, though it seemed he had not quite forgiven Hannibal for the sight of the human liver.

It had been a calculated risk; Will would always react poorly to the fact that Hannibal dined upon the taboo, but so soon after gaining his freedom, he would have been unlikely to retreat to his room again and try to sway Hannibal from his indulgences. As Hannibal had no intention of moderating his eating habits, the quick shock was the most efficient way to push Will into acceptance, if not exactly approval.

Hannibal also intended to keep his word about not killing anyone, though he hoped that negotiations might be able to be broached at a later date when Will was not quite so stubborn and bound by the morals inflicted on him by society. 

He supposed that could lie and keep any restocking secret, but if Will ever found out, the breach in trust would be disastrous, so he resolved to abide by Will’s restriction.

Hannibal had already rationed out the precious bounty of his freezer, that it would last him well into the next year, so there was ample time to change Will’s mind. He kept the mentions of the recent spate of unexplained missing persons to himself.

Late in the evening, with Will being surprisingly amicable (which Hannibal strongly suspected would lead to a request of some sort), the young empath turned to Hannibal and gave a shy smile, confirming Hannibal’s suspicions before he’d even opened his mouth.

“There is no light pollution out here… Would I be able to get a book on star constellations?”

Will rarely asked for anything directly, instead preferring the notebook to petition for items. Hannibal mused the thought over, and quickly ascertained Will’s motivation; no new-found passion for stargazing, but a sly attempt to try to divine their location by the stars. It seemed that Will was not yet done with his attempts to escape, though he was pursuing a much more subtle route this time.

He kept his mirth hidden as he agreed, and with wry amusement, watched as Will took to the porch during the following nights, trying desperately to pick out stars and calibrate degrees without the proper equipment and data charts.

Realization that it was impossible came quickly, and Hannibal was fortunate enough to catch the exact moment when Will’s shoulders slumped and he slammed the book shut with a curse.

Surprisingly, this did not mark the end of Will’s upward attentions, instead it became common on a clear night to find Will sitting and staring upwards, no other goal in mind than to bask in starlight. His face would be calm and the twitching movements of his eyes stilled, and his breaths puffed slow and steady against the chilled night air. 

Occasionally, when not satisfied watching from the window of the darkened hydroponic garden, hidden by the leaves and the shadows they cast, Hannibal would join him, bringing with him warmed brandy, or hot chocolate spiced with chili. As the nights grew colder, he’d also bring a blanket, thick and steaming slightly from its brief period left in the oven to heat through the fibres. 

Will could not pretend that he was not grateful, although the fact that Hannibal preferred to watch him rather than the twinkling lights set against deepest night seemed to unnerve him somewhat.

Hannibal, slipping brandy and smiling to himself, drank in both awkwardness and serenity with equal attentions. 

****

((There is a bit of animal injury in the next part, but rest assured, the critter will be fine.))

It kept getting colder, till Will had to forsake going out without the jacket Hannibal kept locked away, his fingers numbing too quickly and even if he kept moving, he could not stall the creeping chill from permeating through to his bones. 

Icy glimmered on the grass and pine needles more often than not in the early morn, and winter was definitely making itself at home. 

As a result, Hannibal had suggested they make a habit of walking together, that Will could enjoy the outdoors wrapped up in the warm confines of a jacket. When faced with the choice between a growing sense of cabin fever, and accompanying Hannibal, Will elected that it was better to keep himself vaguely fit and agreed. 

Hannibal’s knowledge of the trees and nature was not as extensive as Will’s, and though at first Hannibal seemed irked that Will corrected him that moss did not always grow on the north side of trees, or that mushrooms could be parasitic, soon their walks became exchange of tidbits of information, or exploration of the darker sections of the pine forest.

Sometimes they would go out early, when the sunlight had yet to breach the tree line, the forest filled with shadows. The lake would crackle at the edges, ice like a skin forming over the surface, the moving of the water sluggish and slow. 

Even when there was little in the way of insects for the lake’s inhabitants to eat, the fish would still resist Will’s bait, and he huffed that the fish were too smart for their own good. Hannibal seemed to find this highly amusing.

They would return, invigorated and hungry, to cups of soup by the blazing fire. The fireplace cast a warm light through the day, and Will took his turn in prodding the embers to burn when they had died down, and sweeping out the ashes in the early morn. When he and Hannibal went out for walks together, they would collect pine cones to toss into the flames, filling the house with the pleasant scent of smoke and pine.

It did not escape Will’s notice that he was spending less time locked in his room. Hannibal seemed to go out less frequently, and Will took it as reassurance that this meant Hannibal had less opportunity to stalk down victims. 

Somewhat selfishly though, he was even more grateful that this meant he had the freedom of the house most of the time.

When given the choice, he did not go into his room save to shower, dress and sleep, the long hours of boredom and doubt seemingly imprinted into the walls, and the entire room feeling restrictive and the walls too close. 

Subsequently, he found he was spending more time with Hannibal. 

Sometimes it was simply sitting together while they each read, but more and more, Will found he was asking questions of the killer; what music was playing, or what book was he currently reading?

At first, he had thought Hannibal’s preferences were cultivated to present the image of an intelligent and cultured man, a mask to hide his killer instincts behind, or that he liked the superiority that knowledge of such subjects afforded him, but more and more, he saw that Hannibal had genuine appreciation for literature and classical opera and music. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal liked the opportunity to hear himself speak, but something that Will had not anticipated was that he rather liked to listen. Unlike the psychopaths of textbooks, Hannibal had no issue expressing himself when talking on a favoured singer or author, and would show great emotion as he discussed the artistry and talent of another. After seeing Hannibal’s eyes tear up in a rare moment of human weakness, Will had since decided that Hannibal’s refined pleasures were very close to his heart.

Will might not have had taste for sopranos fluttering about the high notes like they could not make up their mind, but sometimes he caught a look on Hannibal’s face, like the music was swelling up within him and he might burst with bliss, and he envied that his own ear was not tuned to properly enjoy the epic operas, both well-known and obscure.

While his ears failed to grasp the splendour of warbling notes in languages he did not understand, his sense of taste and smell had started to adapt to the flavoursome diet and heady wines Hannibal offered. He could now tell the difference between the heat of chili, or pepper, or mustard, and herbs were no longer massed together as ‘green bits’ in his mind. He could pick up on the subtle sweetness of cardamom, or whether the salt or paprika permeating through the dish was a smoked variety.

In wines too, he could put name to the flavours on his tongue, and as Hannibal gently introduced the language of wine tasting, he found that while his nose was not as sophisticated, he was more creative in describing the vintages. Raspberry and the accompanying foliage, or tea-room leather, or honeyed banana bread.

Hannibal might not always have agreed with Will’s tasting notes, but seemed to greatly enjoy discussing the merits of each bottle with his guest, and mulling over the myriad of flavours to be found in each sip.

On nights where the stars were hidden by thick winter cloud cover, they would sit by the fire, speaking in softs voices that carried easily, and Will could almost forget that he was sitting next to a murder and a kidnapper and a monster.

Then, one day, upon the return of one of Hannibal’s usual shopping trips, the door was unlocked and Will opened the door to see the Ripper nursing a spilt lip. 

He backed up, instinctively, and caught sight of a dark smear across the leg of his trousers, even as Hannibal raised his hands up in calming gesture. He still did not cross the threshold, something that Will was suddenly very grateful for, as he caught scent of the tang of blood in the air.

“Tell me that is not blood.” He whispered, pointing.

Hannibal looked down, and made a face as if annoyed at Will’s sharp observation. He rubbed at his lip, “It is blood, but if you would permit me to give explanation…”

Will had already backed as far into the room as possible, cursing himself for allowing himself to believe Hannibal might have kept his word. The facial wound was most likely defensive, and the blood upon the trouser leg too much for it to be Hannibal’s, which meant that he have been hunting, and killing. An errant elbow or fist into his face, as his prey refused to die quietly.

 _What did you expect? He is a monster._ but Will had _hoped_ that Hannibal might have stopped, as he said he would.

An instant hope sprung up, unbidden, that while Hannibal could well be killing, and there was little Will could do to stop him, at least if there was a fresh body, there was a chance that someone might find a trace with which to locate him by. Moreso if the unfortunate victim had been able to fight back enough to bloody Hannibal’s lip.

Will felt sick that he could feel anything but disgust at the thought of a murder, guilty to his gut. He looked at Hannibal, eyes narrowed.

Hannibal had remained at the doorframe, and had crossed his arms, waiting for Will to give him chance to speak. “Before you go jumping to any more completely inaccurate conclusions… I hit a raccoon on the way back. I slammed down on the brakes, and went forward into the steering wheel.” He gestured to his lip, which had stopped bleeding, but had swollen and staining his lips dark red. “I must have brushed against the bumper of the truck as I walked past, and got blood on my trouser-leg. I hope this allays your unfounded fears.”

Will paused, and tried to hold on to his fear, and not take every word Hannibal said as truth. Arms crossed across his chest, he kept his distance. “Not so unfounded, given your history Hannibal.”

Hannibal sighed, sucking his teeth. “True.” Then, after a moment’s thought, “Fine. Come see the truck.”

Will considered the possibility that this was elaborate set-up to further Hannibal’s hidden agendas, or that Hannibal had finally tired of his demanding houseguest, and as the garage, previously barred to him, had a concrete floor and drain it would be easier to clean up should blood be spilled.

He jerked his glasses off, and looked at Hannibal, determined that if Hannibal did mean to end him, he’d at least see it coming and not walk blindly to his slaughter.

Hannibal’s ‘going-out’ garb confused the matter; Hannibal adopting a different set of mannerisms while wearing his disguise, and the costume so complete it masked the man underneath. However, Will had been observing Hannibal for months now, and could see where the proud doctor did not allow himself to be completely obscured; his eyes still sharp and focused, his stance just a little too sure of himself.

He was, under all the layers, injured, and irritated, but not murderous. There was no elation at putting down one of the pigs the Ripper saw his victims as, nor excited anticipation of a kill, as he would have expected should Hannibal have dark and bloody plans for himself.

He replaced his glasses, and gave a little nod, that yes he would like to see the truck for himself. 

Hannibal “If you would be so kind as to close the door then, while I open the way to the garage. It shall not take a moment, but I hope you’ll appreciate that I still wish to keep the passcode hidden.”

Stepping forward, Will pulled the door shut, counting to himself the seconds, so that he might be able to tell if Hannibal was moving some piece of evidence out of view, or readying a weapon, or doing anything other than unlocking the garage door.

He trusted his eyes, and thought that he had seen Hannibal accurately even through his layers, but he did not trust the Ripper to not have fooled him.

Before he had reached a count of twenty seconds, the door was opened, slowly so as not to startle, and Hannibal pointed the way to the garage.

Will stayed put, and did not lead the way. With a tip of the head, that took several heartbeats longer than Will thought necessary, Hannibal realised that Will did not wish to have his back to the doctor. He made a short snorting noise, and walked forwards, allowing Will to follow at a distance.

The garage was dimly lit, but even in the dark, Will could see the red truck. The surface was dusted, and it no longer gleamed as if newly polished. It seemed smaller than the last time he’d seen it, so long without any point of reference of a vehicle had confused his perceptions, and he could not imagine being comfortable inside such a confined space.

Sure enough, down on the driver’s side of the bumper, was a dark stain smeared across metal. 

It was the right height for a raccoon, and though there was a lot of blood, it didn’t seem to have any fur or shards of bone. Will looked up at Hannibal, who was gingerly testing his lip, assessing the damage to his face with a curious fingertip.

“Where is the raccoon now?” he asked, trying to ignore his disappointment that it did indeed seem that Hannibal had hit a raccoon, other than kill another human being, and potentially alert people to the Ripper’s presence in the area. Sharp pangs of guiltiness jabbed at him, for even considering that someone had been murdered might be at all beneficial in relation to his own predicament. 

He desperately wanted there to actually be a raccoon to abate the sick feeling that he was being affected by Hannibal’s presence, and losing himself in the process. If given the choice, he would have gladly accepted an injured animal, over a corpse and chance at being found, if only because he could not stomach that he could be so callous about loss of life.

Hannibal waved a dismissive hand, “Staggered off into the woods. I did not care to investigate further, having suffered injury myself due to the beast’s stupidity in wandering out into the road.”

“How far?” his query did not come across as causal as he was aiming for, and Hannibal lowered his hand, tensing his jaw.

“… You want to go tramping through the woods looking for the damnable thing, don’t you?”

Will nodded, then realised he’d find it rather difficult to explain why without confessing his conflicted thoughts about Hannibal killing people, and that the trail of blood might lead to his eventual rescue.

“…I believe you… but I still think I would feel better seeing the raccoon for myself.” Will could hear the hollow ring to his words, and would have been truly shocked if Hannibal for a moment believed the lie.

Luckily, Hannibal seemed to assume that his love for the four-legged, as demonstrated by his attachment to his dogs, was the driving motivation. He adopted a stance of capitulation, apparently pleased that Will wanted to believe him. 

However, he did not hide his obvious contempt for Will’s sentimentality, and the further problems it raised. With an exaggerated sigh he reached into a pocket and clicked off the locking alarm on the truck, moving to sit in the driver’s seat. “Very well. It was a few miles back. Get in and we’ll go see if we cannot set your mind at ease.” 

Will did not hesitate, and got into the truck, and with a steady rumble, the engine was invoked into life. Another click, from somewhere on the dashboard Will was too slow to catch, and the garage door started to rattle and rise.

The day was overcast, and a dismal wash of grey coated the sky, and they set out on the rough dirt-track.

Traveling by truck was strange, and being permitted to be conscious during so was stranger still. Will twitched visibly, held in place by the sturdy seatbeat, nerves alight, thoughts fluttering through his mind.

Hannibal started to slow, and Will could see the darker grooves in the road, where Hannibal must have braked hard. There was blood, but not as much as he feared, showing the animal had at least been able to walk away from the crash.

Will had clicked open his seatbeat before the truck had actually stopped, and Hannibal watched as Will swung legs out and set off in the direction the raccoon seemed to have taken, before pocketing the keys and following, dutifully lending his eyes to the task.

Will held up a hand to call them to a halt, and pointed ahead.

The raccoon was upright, but only barely so, and looked to be in shock. It limped as it tried to move away from the two approaching figures. Will felt sorry that it had suffered injury, but was heartened that he did not have to feel guilt for some human victim, and that Hannibal had indeed been as blameless as he had said.

He did not think he’d ever been so relieved to see blood in his life. 

Then the reality of the situation struck him, that this poor creature, solid evidence that Hannibal could be trusted not to completely disregard any promises he had with Will, was unlikely to survive out in the forest come the night.

“Lend me your coat.” Will said, voice low and barely audible. Hannibal frowned.

“And exactly what do you plan to do with my coat?” he asked, making no move to take off the tweed coat he used as part of his disguise.

“Its in shock, but not too badly hurt. If we take it back, give it somewhere warm and safe to rest and some food and water, it should recover. We can use the coat to keep it calm while we move it.”

“This is not some stray puppy Will. It is a wild animal, and probably is host to all sorts of fleas and lice and vileness. Let it be, and let nature take its course. Even with the best care, it might still perish.”

He could hear in Hannibal’s tone that he would not be persuaded on any altruistic grounds to further involve himself with the raccoon, which had shuffled further away.

Will drew shaky breath, feeling the cold air upon his skin, and knowing the self-same chill would leech the strength from the injured animal.

He straightened from the crouch he’d adopted to seem less threatening to the raccoon, and turned to face Hannibal. “I don’t like the thought of it dying out here… Please Hannibal, let’s give it a chance.”

Hannibal raised one eyebrow, clearly contemplating the request but not yet convinced. 

Finally, he said, “No.”

Will’s shoulders slumped, and he glanced back to the curled form of the creature, that had gone rather still.

Hannibal had turned, and started back towards the truck, when Will’s voice caused him to stop dead in his step.

“A kiss.”

Will tried not to look afraid, as Hannibal rounded on him with speed, eyes suddenly sharp and locked upon his.

“I beg your pardon… I do not believe I quite caught that…”

“If you help me save the raccoon, I’ll let you kiss me. It’s something you want, right?” Will gave a little forced laugh, “It’s not like I have anything else to offer…”

Hannibal, ignoring entirely the creature in the distance, closed the space between them, till Will could tell exactly by how much Hannibal was the taller. There was not much in height between them, though Will felt small in comparison to Hannibal’s looming frame, eyes filling his vision, showing far too much of the desire Will had been trying to ignore. He closed his eyes, and relaxed his jaw with his hands at his sides, and braced for Hannibal’s touch.

When it did not come, he squinted his eyes open, unsure.

He saw Hannibal, very close, and smirking. “An interesting offer, but I think I shall decline. I’ll not have you thinking you have to prostitute yourself whenever you want something….”

Then he swept a hand up, and pulled his coat from his shoulder, holding it out to Will.

“I’ll not have the thing in the house, but you can set up a little den in the garage. I’ll leave the truck outside, I do not imagine it’ll take too kindly to being in the same place as the instrument of its injury.”

It took Will a moment to be able to formulate a response, and his voice came out surprisingly shaky as he thanked Hannibal. With a nod, still wearing a residual curl to his lips, Hannibal went and started up the engine, waiting for Will and his new-found ‘pet’.

Will took the coat, and wrapped his arms as protection against claws or teeth. The raccoon did not need much chasing down, and Will was surprised at the size of it, as he carefully bundled it and himself back into the waiting truck.

As they drove, Will was pleased to note that the raccoon was struggling, showing more spirit than he’d have thought, and boding well for its recovery. He did not explain this with Hannibal, figuring that his joy would not be shared.

“I still think this is an ill-advised activity, but you seem set on the notion. I will however remind you that it is a wild animal Will, and will not thank you for your troubles. Try not to get bitten; I hate to think what diseases the thing is carrying.” Hannibal’s tone was lighter than his words would suggest, and Will found himself smiling, bright and open.

It took some manoeuvring to set up the garage, Hannibal unwilling to leave the truck unattended in case Will decided to forsake the raccoon and try to take flight. Will, likewise, did not want to risk the raccoon wandering straight back out while doors were locked and unlocked, and cause further stress. Eventually though, the bundle was placed out in a corner in the empty garage, and Will and Hannibal quickly left through the door, intending to return later with some additional bedding and food and water.

Hannibal had already changed his clothes, and likely no longer had the keys to the truck upon his person, but Will was far more concerned with filling bowls with what he thought a raccoon might eat to even think about the blatant chance to make good his escape.

“Rather than bowls which will tip over, try small saucepans.” Hannibal suggested coming into the kitchen, dressed in his usual attire, and lip cleaned of the residual drops of blood. It was slightly swollen, and Will realised that Hannibal had forgone first aid and ice packs in attending to his demands to go seek out the raccoon. It made him all the more grateful that Hannibal had agreed to taking the creature in for the night.

The door to the garage was carefully opened, Will dutifully turning his back so as not to see as Hannibal entered in the passcode.

Eyes reflected the dim light from the corner, the raccoon hunched and pressed as far from the humans as possible. Will carefully walked down the steps, and laid the food and water saucepans in the middle of the floor. He’d taken Hannibal’s advice about the pans, as well as adding in a raw egg to the roughly chopped vegetables. He dropped a towel to the floor, which he hoped the raccoon would drag to wherever it felt safest, before backing away.

“He’s alert; a good sign.” He said, as Hannibal shut the door.

“How do you know it to be male?”

“I don’t, but I don’t like calling it ‘it’….” Will cocked his head to the side, as he closed his eyes shut that Hannibal could lock the door, “…he’ll need a name.” he pondered to himself.

He could hear Hannibal’s sigh, even over the electronic beep of the keypad. “Perhaps it would be wise to wait till morning, before you christen the beast…. You may open your eyes.”

He laughed at Hannibal’s unguarded exasperation over the raccoon, and rubbed his chin as he blinked his eyes open. “Yeah… Ok, we’ll check in on him tomorrow.”


	16. Chapter 16

Throughout the rest of the day, Will lingered by the door. Hannibal’s eye quickly turned from wary to mildly amused, as he realised that Will had no interest in the door mechanism, but instead was listening for sounds that the raccoon was moving about.

He wondered why he had not thought to provide Will a project to occupy him before, Will’s smile coming easy as evening fell upon the household.

He still was concerned that the raccoon would not hold Will’s full attention for long, and that eventually his gaze would turn to the truck sitting outside, bold and brazen in bright red. Hannibal had no idea whether Will would be able to hot-wire the truck, the keys safely locked in his own bedroom, and though he doubted the empath possessed such a criminal skill he did not like the potential that Will could fly the coup before he would have chance to stop him. It was something of a nuisance that while Will’s spirits were so high, Hannibal was fraught with tension.

He did not allow himself his usual glass of wine that evening, and slept lightly.

So it came as no surprise to him that when he woke, he saw the thick layer of snow outside, as the steady creak of amassing flakes had been keeping him company through the small hours of the night, while Will slept on oblivious.

He cursed the snowfall; he had been hoping to journey out and pick up some form of vehicle security such as a steering wheel lock, to reassure himself that his precious (and at times precocious) houseguest would not leave him so soon.

The deep grips on the tires of the truck were able to handle the snow, but flakes were still falling, and he did not fancy that it would remain safe to be driving in such weather.

Irritated, and more than a little irked at the circumstances beyond his control, he went to brew himself a pot of tea. As he passed, he could hear scuffling coming from the other side of the garage door. Though he had no love for the creature, he offered it a silent nod of gratitude that it had lasted the night for Will’s sake.

It posed further problems of course. He doubted Will would be persuaded to release it, given the conditions outside, which meant longer term preparations would have to be undertaken.

He sipped his tea, brewed strong enough to sooth the worse of his temper. He supposed he could sacrifice a wicker laundry basket, in addition to his tweed coat he doubted would ever be wearable again, coated in raccoon blood and torn with sharp little claws. The basket would make a decent stand-in for a nesting burrow, that would not cause harm should the creature try to chew upon it. 

Will would like the idea, and be grateful. That in itself was reason enough, but Hannibal wondered if this would not invite further expectations and demands. So far, Will had been mostly reasonable in his requests, and he would hate to have to prune back on his allowances and endure the resulting sulk sure to follow.

He was part-way through some firm ground rules concerning the latest addition to the household, when he heard Will stir from sleep. A brief functional shower, and then, yes, Will had emerged from the hot water and caught sight of the snow outside.

Hannibal chuckled into his teacup, reminded of a child as he heard Will dress with more haste than usual. He did not take offence that Will’s first stop out of his room was the garage door, and he rose to walk across, keeping his footsteps soft that they did not interfere with Will’s attempts to hear the raccoon.

“I heard it moving, not half an hour ago.”

Will jumped, losing his balance and falling backward on his heels, and Hannibal wondered that so much had changed he could take the consultant by surprise, when before his movements were tracked with wide eyes and wary gaze.

“I apologise. I did not mean to startle you.” 

Torn between the surge of panic, and embarrassment, Will’s eyes fell to the floor, “It’s fine, I guess I was distracted listening out for Rover.”

Hannibal found that for a moment, he was struck speechless. That Will had chosen to look away showed a level of trust that he was not sure the empath properly appreciated, that he, the Chesapeake Ripper, was no longer considered a threat.

He smiled briefly, unseen, before straightening his face.

“…Rover…?” he asked, more enquiring if Will was serious, rather than asking explanation.

Will turned to the door and still not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. The fading flush of embarrassment coloured his cheeks nicely, and though the angle at which Hannibal was standing caused his hair to obscure most of his face, he could see the boyish grin.

“Yeah, Rover. It’s as good a name as any.”

“There are better names…” Hannibal remarked, not half as stern as he ought to be. Something in Will’s cheer was contagious, and though he cared very little for what Will decided to dub the beast, he rather liked the playful back and forth.

“Well then….Hannibal is a fine name, would you’d rather I call him Hannibal then?”

“I am glad you find my name pleasing… but I fear that may become confusing, in a very short space of time. I suppose at least I will not mistake ‘Rover’ for my own designation.”

“So it’s settled then. Rover.” Will gave a satisfied nod, finally hearing what sounding like the raccoon digging at the concrete floor, having acclimatised to the voices outside the garage door. He got up to his feet, smiling softly to himself that the sound of his movement had undone the animal’s bravery, and it had rushed back to whatever corner it had claimed as a temporary home.

“Right. I’ll get started on breakfast. I imagine you’ll forgo your run this morning, the snow’s pretty deep.”

“True. And still falling.” Hannibal waited for the inevitable request to keep the raccoon till the weather improved. When it did not emerge from Will’s lips, Hannibal frowned, watching as Will made his way to the kitchen and started setting out a pot of porridge on the stove and coffee to accompany.

He took a seat, pouring the last of his tea as he waited for Will to join him.

Practiced of the art of porridge making, Will’s movements smooth and rehearsed as he bustled round the kitchen, meant that he did not have to wait long. He was pleased that the coffee was placed in front of him to almost perfectly coincide with the last of the warmth leaving his china teacup.

The porridge, rich and thick with a pleasant heat that lingered upon the tongue, had been stirred through with redcurrant jam, the bright swirl vivid against the cream coloured oats. Will’s bowl boosted more colour than Hannibal’s, due to the extra spoon of jam he added, and the hue called forth memories of blood washed against white porcelain.

Hannibal did not think the comparison would aid Will’s appetite, though he found his own unaffected. He also noted a small saucer set aside with a lump of jam on it, presumably for the raccoon. He made mental note to mark the plate somehow, that the humans of the house would not share the same crockery as the animal.

“So,” Will became, as he poured coffee into their cups, “I’ve been thinking. We should keep the raccoon a couple more days, at least till the snow has thawed a bit.” 

It was not a request, but a conversation, as if this was something to be discussed and dually agreed upon. 

The shift in the dynamic between them was subtle, and unexpected, though not unwelcome.  
Hannibal approved of the fact that Will seemed to have lost his fear, that he could speak his mind and not have to bow and bend to his kidnapper. If Hannibal had wanted such a thing, it would have been a simple matter to break Will down and built him back up to his liking, but he cherished that Will had a mind of his own, and would utilise it in conversation. It was much more stimulating than some broken creature speaking only what he thought Hannibal wanted to hear. 

However, he wondered at what point he would have to remind Will that ultimately he made the decisions. That he was in charge, and that Will was his houseguest. 

He pursed his lips, dabbing a napkin at a stray dollop of sticky porridge as he considered his response.

Will was not stupid, and just because he longer feared for his safety did not mean he would stop trying to gain the freedom he thought he wanted. He had yet to see that here with Hannibal, he was protected from those who would place demands and pressures upon him till he broke under the strain. That while Hannibal had his own expectations of the empath, he had no desire for some shattered shell of a man. 

In time, Will would appreciate that Hannibal cherished him like no other ever could, but such understanding had yet to permeate Will’s consciousness.

Which left them at this awkward stage in their relationship, where Hannibal could not trust that Will would not flee if given the chance. 

“That causes something of a problem.” Hannibal said, slowly, carefully monitoring his inflection to cultivate discussion rather than argument. This was an important lesson for Will to learn, that he could reach compromise with a cannibal.

“The truck.” Will replied, already anticipating the issue. Hannibal gave a brief nod.

“I’m sure you appreciate that the truck is less secure when out of the garage.”

“You are worried I am going to commit grand theft auto and drive off.” Will huffed a laugh, stirring more jam into his bowl, “I don’t even know how to disable the alarms, let alone hotwire and get the engine running…”

“Ah, but would you confess to such a skill if you could?”

“No.” he admitted.

“Well then you see my dilemma… If the raccoon – ”

“Rover.” Will interjected. Hannibal’s mouth twitched at the rudeness of the interruption, but continued smoothly.

“If _Rover_ is housed in the garage, what can I do to ensure you do not meddle with the truck?”

“My word that I won’t will not suffice?”

Hannibal gave him a stern look, to which Will did not shirk away from, but instead shrug with a smirk, as if he could not be blamed for trying. 

He could see Will turn the matter over in his head, running through possible plans and plots and how they might offer possible escape, but mostly focused on the damnable raccoon and how to keep it indoors.

“We could set up a different room for Rover, and you could return the truck to the garage.”

“I believe I already said that I will not have the animal in the house. It is unsanitary to have a wild creature near the kitchen where we prepare food.”

“What about my room then? We could lock the door so he won’t be anywhere near your kitchen.”

 _Clever Will_ , Hannibal thought. By moving the raccoon to his own room, _he_ would be unable to be locked in, and Hannibal had to admire the speed at which he had found suggestion that benefited both the beast and himself. Admire, but not allow.

“It is hardly kind to keep an animal locked in such confined quarters.” 

Will did not make comment, but Hannibal caught the bitter look that passed across his eyes, especially when he saw that Hannibal was smiling, in full recognition of the comparison drawn between his houseguest and the uninvited creature currently taking up residence in the garage. 

“I guess it would be rather cruel.” He remarked, his tone soured.

“We could release it rather than keep it cooped up. I am sure it craves its freedom.”

Will looked out the window, at the snowy blanket covering the ground. Pure and white, and deceptively deadly.

“We could open the garage door, and let him come and go as he pleases, but I think he’d just make a run for it. I can’t imagine that would help his recovery any; he’d not understand that he is better to stay put for his own sake, even if he doesn’t like it… ” He tilted his head, and fixed Hannibal with a long stare. “And I’m not so sure you’re talking about the raccoon anymore...”

“You are right, we appear to have wandered off-topic. What to do about the truck then?”

With hair that fell over his eyes, Will looked down at his coffee cup, as if trying to divine the solution from the dark liquid.

“Could you let the air out of the tires?”

“Alas, not easily, and restoring them even less so.” 

“I’ll not go out while the truck is out there then. The snow’s too thick anyway…. You can lock the front door.”

“Perhaps, but I would hate to deprive you of your star gazing, nor the opportunity for fresh air. It is not the waking hours that concern me, you would not risk anything when I could see, but when it comes time to sleep I fear the temptation may prove too great.”

Hannibal was ready for the moment when Will understood what he was saying, and kept his face neutral, neither gleeful nor threatening.

“You want to lock the bedroom door while I sleep. To make sure I don’t try anything during the night.”

“That is the gist of it. It would make no different to your daily activities, you stay in your room through the night anyway, and I rise easier than you. And I would rest better knowing I would have the pleasure of your company come the morning.”

Will sighed into his coffee, rippling the surface with his breath. “Fine...” he jerked his head upwards, “But only till the snow clears and we let Rover out the garage.”

“Naturally. When the garage becomes vacant of vermin, there will be no need for night-time security measures.”

Will gave a nod, and, upon realising that Rover would be permitted to stay, brightened. “Rover isn’t vermin.” He protested with a shy smile, “And will probably be hungry by now. Can I get into the garage to feed him?”

“Of course.”

They rose from the table, clears plates and cutlery into the sink, before the porridge could harden and become difficult to clean.

Hannibal looked over the tray of food Will had assembled, and clicked his tongue. 

“Problem?” Will asked, as he added some slices of apple to the plate with jam, as well as dry oats leftover from the porridge.

“Raccoons, like ourselves, are omnivores, and designed to eat meat.”

Will stopped, mid slice, and swallowed audibly. 

Hannibal moved to the fridge, and pulled out a sausage from the package he intended to have for his dinner. “I do not think I’ll be letting the butcher know we fed one of his award winning sausages to a raccoon…”

Will did not laugh, but Hannibal could feel some of the tension slip from his stance, and he resumed cutting the apple.

Reluctant, but accepting of the fact that Hannibal was entirely correct, Will allowed the rough cut sausage, still raw, to be added to the platter. 

The stink of the garage was sudden and violent as he opened the door, and Hannibal had to avoid breathing through his nose as he let Will climb down the stairs to deposit the tray on the floor. He held the door open for Will to exit, and was surprised when Will did not immediately start up the stairs.

“Come now, the air in here is most distasteful.” A polite way of saying that the animal they had chosen to house had defecated copiously in an unventilated environment.

“Just a moment, I want to see if he’ll come out.” Will turned and sat on the top step, as far from the rest of the garage as possible, his own nose scrunched against the smell, but seemingly not as nauseated as Hannibal was.

Hannibal, his delicate nose assaulted by the stench, left Will on the step, retreating to the kitchen and helping himself to a second cup of coffee to try and clear the odour from his senses.

By the time Will joined him, he was in better form, though he had already planned to dab some aftershave on a handkerchief for the next time he has to brave the garage and its new extremely pungent occupant.

“Well?”

“I didn’t see much, Rover was too shy to come out, but he watched me for a bit.”

Hannibal sniffed loudly, his nose still stinging. “By the smell, I had wondered if he had not died. However, after reassessing the state of the garage, I am afraid I am going to have to change our arrangement.”

“You’re going to get rid of him because of a little bad smell?!” Will, aggravated and angry, stood to protest.

Hannibal coolly observed Will’s clenched fists, wondering if he planned to raise them. When Will took a deep breath, willing himself to hear Hannibal out, he continued.

“No… but when we do let him loose again, I shall need a couple of extra days to air the garage out. I’d ask your tolerance to a couple of additional nights with the bedroom lock engaged.”

“Oh…” Will had the decency to look embarrassed at his outburst. “Yeah, that’d be fine… Sorry, I thought you were going to make me toss Rover out into the snow.”

Hannibal allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. This was a delightful outcome to the day’s conversations, and he could not have asked Will to supply a better opening to ensure future exchanges were met with more open understanding, and less fear and suspension.  
“Of course not…. After all, I’m no monster.”


	17. Chapter 17

There were additional snowfalls over the following days, but eventually the accumulated ice and sleet started to thaw, leaving the ground sodden.

Likewise, Rover’s trepidation had started to ebb, as Will spent more and more time just sitting by the step in the doorway of the garage. On the arrival of fresh food, a snout, then small little paws would emerge.

That was when Will saw that Rover was in fact female. 

She walked with a slight limp, but otherwise seemed to be recovering well, and if her appetite was anything to go by. Will thought that she would manage fine out on her own once the weather improved. 

The blood on her flank had been groomed, till it was barely noticeable, and though her front paw curled in a little fist as she walked, she seemed to be able to balance without difficulty. Her eyes were bright, and dark, and watchful.

Will, on Hannibal’s suggestion, had started to bring down food in smaller quantities, but more frequently, to acclimatise the raccoon to his presence. Once the garage door was opened, he’d quietly go down the steps and lay down the plate. Only once he’d backed away up the steps, would Rover approach the food, keeping wary eye on Will but otherwise settled that the human would not attack or try to take back the meal. 

If Will was to sneeze, or make a sudden movement she’d freeze or dart back to cover, fur bristled and claws scratching against concrete. Even when he was perfectly quiet and still, she would keep her distance. 

Hannibal, however, had made quite clear that he found the smell of garage extremely offensive to his nose, and though he occasionally checked that Will was still in sight, tended to keep his distance. 

Will had made attempts to clear out the worst of the filth, but the scrap of dustpan across the concrete caused Rover to frantically scurry round the walls of the garage, and thereafter be much more shy about coming out of the shadows when Will was there. 

In interests of not provoking such panic that she might injury herself, and maintaining what little trust he’d earned, Will grit his teeth and bore the stink (though he’d often shower after sitting in the garage). 

Hannibal did not go out into town, the road still iced and treacherous, so the truck stayed stationary outside, though Will avoided even looking at the vehicle, lest Hannibal decide he was plotting escape. Rover would be the one to pay the price, and the weather, whilst not so freezing, was still cold enough Will could see his breath, even during the brightest parts of the day.

Despite no fresh food being brought in, he and Hannibal ate well; the larder had been well stocked in the event of adverse weather, and Hannibal continued to create meals to rival any restaurants’. The hydroponic garden meant they had fresh vegetables and herbs, even though the yield was affected by winter stealing the available sunlight hours. 

Hannibal would occasionally put aside a small portion of their own fare for the raccoon, as long as it was not too heavily spiced. Rover was no doubt one of the most spoiled raccoons in the world, housed and fed, but she still would not allow Will to get too close, no matter how much he cooed and offered choice bits of jam or pasta in his hand. He tried not to mind, and found the company of the animal pleasant regardless. 

However, sometimes he craved conversation, and then Hannibal was always on hand to provide discussion. 

They would talk long into the night, over wine or brandy or whiskey, the fireplace crackling and warming their legs till the skin became uncomfortably hot. Hannibal, purely because it generated a more challenging dialogue between them, would often take up opposing viewpoints to Will’s, and the resulting discourse was both satisfying, and enjoyable. Will knew the topics chosen were deliberately those of little consequence, lest the argument turn to actual conflict between the FBI consultant and the serial killer, but occasionally Hannibal would let slip a comment tinged with a darker edge, and Will would occasionally find that his face lifted into a grin at Hannibal’s particular brand of dry wit.

More worrisome than laughing along with a killer, was that it was not causing him as much concern as he thought it should. When however, the alternative was dreadfully dull solitude (or ending up on the dinner table), Will felt he could not feel too guilty over a little gallows humour.

At the end of each evening, Hannibal would bid him a good night, then lock the bedroom door. 

The first night, sleep did not come, and Will found thoughts of fire and being trapped while the room blazed twisted round his mind. He had risen from his bed, and banged upon the door, asking to be let out to check that the fireplace was entirely out.

Hannibal, dressed in dark brown silk pyjamas that Will later reflected he had not ever had chance to see before, opened the door, and allowed Will to check that the fireplace was cool to the touch.

“I understand your anxiety, but you have only to knock and rouse me from sleep, and I will open the door.” He had said, as Will’s hand came away from the fireplace, covered in soot.

As Will had washed the ash from his hand, it was as if he also cleansed his mind. Hannibal had been prompt in opening the door, and he was reassured that he’d not be left locked in the bedroom should fire burn out of control, or, more likely to occur, his thoughts turn fearful.

Hannibal was calm, and understanding, and though Will could see he was eager for his own rest, he stayed with Will till the nervous tension slipped from his shaking hands. They drank some warmed milk, to coax sleep after such alarm, and then Will reattempted to go to bed.

It did not take long for him to find his way to dreamless peace, and in the nights that followed he discovered that the door did not bother him, nor invoke such dread, now that he knew Hannibal would let him out should he request it, which conversely, reduced his need.

Sometimes he would hear the door open in the morning as dawn reclaimed the sky, but others he slept through, so used was he to the heavy metal mechanism.


	18. Chapter 18

The low winter sun shone through the treetops, blinding his sight in the cold morning air. Will had stepped out, partly to savour the fresh shock of clear air, but moreso to get the stink of captive raccoon out of his nostrils.

The weather had improved, bright and clear, and Rover was showing signs of increased stress due to being held in the garage for so long. She seemed constantly agitated, and Will had heard her scrabbling at the concrete ground, and trying to chew at the door in efforts to escape.

Loathe as he was to let her out and lose the pleasure of her quiet and undemanding company, he could see that delaying would only cause her further anxiety. 

She still limped, but seemed otherwise in good health, and her plentiful diet surely would grant her insulation against the winter months still to come. There was no other reason than his own reluctance to let her go, and Will knew he could not be that selfish.

Hannibal, who had been leaving decisions about the raccoon to Will, simply nodded when Will announced over breakfast that he would like to let her go. Any glee at finally being able to reclaim the garage was carefully hidden, though Will could tell the man was pleased that he would not have to raise the issue himself, as the allocated time had already extended past the thawing of the snow.

It was a strangely sombre moment, as the wide outer garage door was raised, the whirl and clatter of mechanics causing Rover to scamper and hide herself in the remains of the wicker basket Hannibal had provided in lieu of a proper pet bed. 

Standing back away from the opening, he was joined by Hannibal. He’d brought with him the pair of coats, one of which Will gratefully wrapped round himself, the preserved heat helping his patience as he allowed Rover time to acclimatise to the glaring daylight, and sudden freedom.

It took several long minutes, carefully eyeing the opening, shuffling back and forth, before Rover decided that the way forward was safe. She ran into the treeline, limping slightly, but with strength and speed, and not stopping till she’d disappeared from sight. 

There was no backward glance, nor any sign she held any warm regard for the efforts of the two humans whose roof and food she had shared. Will sighed softly.

“The raccoon seemed in good health.” Hannibal said, after long deliberation for an appropriate comment to fill the silence. Will chuckled at his efforts, knowing fine well that Hannibal would be glad to be rid of the beast.

“Yeah… I think she’ll be fine.” he rubbed the side of his face, and turned to the garage. “I’m gonna make a start on cleaning up, but afterwards it might be an idea to hose the floor down.” Will thought for a moment, and realised he had not seen any outdoor taps, “Do we even have a hose?”

“There is no hose, but I can fill buckets with hot water and bleach, and leave them at the top of the stairs indoors. The drain should work fine, as long as it is not too clogged up with hair and… other matter…” Hannibal’s distaste for the less savoury elements of animal keeping was writ across his face, and Will had to stop himself from laughing outright. 

He turned to the task, in part to hide his mirth at Hannibal’s expense, which he decided would be poor way to show gratitude for the man’s patience and leniency, and in part because the sooner he started, the sooner he’d be able to finish and enjoy a hot shower as well-earned reward.

Scraping the collected mess took longer than he had imagined, and by the time the floor was clean enough to benefit from being slooshed with the hot water Will’s back and shoulders ached. The wicker basket was beyond salvage, and resided in a refuse bag outside. He’d found piles of hoarded food in the corners that in addition to having to go near the ominous freezer, had turned his stomach, and his trousers had suffered splashes that did not bear thinking about (luckily, it had been too warm to work in the coat, and it had been folded and placed on the step, unsullied), but at least he felt that the garage had been returned to a reasonable state. 

He tipped the water across the floor, and considered the poor state of his clothes. Rather than trail filth through the house, he decided he’d undress in the garage, and later collect the clothes for cleaning once he’d had the benefit of a hot shower. He could hear Hannibal bustling about in the kitchen, and decided his modesty could take a back seat when the idea of being in the soiled clothes a moment more than necessary make his skin crawl.

Shoes and shirt and trousers were piled none too neatly at the top of the stairs, and he made for the door.

Hannibal, bringing through a refilled bucket, wore a look of surprise as Will misplaced his step and stood, clad only in his underwear in the hallway between the garage and his bedroom. He tried to speak, but found he could only make an inelegant croaking, as Hannibal’s eyes fell down his body, unapologetic in their appraisal. Feeling his cheeks heat with a furious blush, Will finally managed to regain his poise and rush for his bedroom door, slamming it harder than he intended behind him.

“Sorry!” he called from the door, feeling he ought to try and explain why Hannibal had seen him in such a state of undress. “I didn’t want to bring the dirty clothes through the house. I thought you were busy in the kitchen, so I just…”

“No need to apologise, dear Will.” Hannibal’s voice was smooth, and though raised so it could be heard through the door, composed, “I did not mind in the slightest the sight.”

An uncomfortable feeling, like his skin was too tight, washed over him, and he tried to put from his head all the ways his actions could be misconstrued. 

He mumbled that he was going to take a shower, and, not waiting to see if Hannibal had heard, hurried into the cleansing spray, trying very hard not to dwell on the complimentary comments of a cannibal.


	19. Chapter 19

Will emerged, hair damp but not dripping, and feeling better for the heat of the water upon his skin.

The garage door had been relocked, the keypad refusing him access, but he could hear the washing machine in the middle of a cycle, and gathered that Hannibal had already put his discarded clothes into the wash. 

He would have liked to go into the garage and sit in the dark and quiet as had been his habit over the last few days, but since its occupant was no longer present, he instead sat by the fireplace, body tired and thoughts scattered. He did not bother to pick out a book to pretend to read, as he let the soft leather curl comfortingly around his body. His eyes slid shut, as he let the fire warm through him.

A clatter of china pulled his attention, as he saw Hannibal place a tray with a pot of tea, and cups, and carefully arranged biscuits down on the table. He paused a moment, allowing Will time to collect himself, before he spoke.

“You did an admirable job on the garage. You have my thanks.”

Will shrugged, eyeing Hannibal to ensure personal space was maintained. “It was the least I could do, given you never wanted Rover here in the first place.”

Hannibal poured the steaming liquid into a cup, and handed it over, before taking a step backwards into his own chair. 

Neither of them made mention that Will visibly relaxed when Hannibal moved from him.

“True,” Hannibal admitted, pouring a cup for himself. “I lack the same affinity for animals as yourself.”

“So thanks… for letting Rover stay I mean. You didn’t have to, but you did…” Will caught himself before he could ramble further, and let his words trail off. 

He missed caring for Rover, that bright sense of satisfaction as he watched her eat, and gain confidence around him. It had been nice to have _something_ in the whole house that was his, and not Hannibal’s.

He could not help thinking, however, that now she was gone, there was something missing. He wondered if it would have been better that Hannibal never allowed her to stay in the first place, and save him the odd restlessness and unease he felt skittering across his nerves.

He drank the tea, hoping the brew might settle him; that it was only tiredness that was causing such maudlin thoughts.

The tea had a smoky quality to it, and Will took it without milk, long ago having learnt that Hannibal would supply milk should it be needed but that some teas were better without. The beverage was welcome, and Will started to unwind. He reached for a biscuit, and caught Hannibal staring at him.

Swallowing, he diverted his gaze to the fire, only to find when he lifted his head Hannibal’s eyes were still fixated on him. He shifted in the chair, curling his shoulders forward defensively.

Hannibal leaned back into the chair, the leather creaking. “Rather than sit and ruminate upon the raccoon, would you perhaps consider joining me in the kitchen after we finish our tea? I think it would serve as welcome distraction.”

Before, the notion of joining a known cannibal in his kitchen would have been cause for alarm, but now Will only nodded, grateful for Hannibal’s thoughtfulness.

Together they made homemade pasta with the last of the eggs, stuffed with fresh spinach and ricotta, seasoned with nutmeg and black pepper. Making the parcels was fiddly, and required concentration and practice before they would hold together when dowsed in the boiling water. While Hannibal fussed over a batch of bread designated to be served with stew come the evening, Will found the task consuming, and by the time he had managed to make enough for two, his thoughts no longer centred around Rover.

Dressed in a simple olive oil muddled with basil and lemon, the meal was both revitalising and refreshing, matching the bold sunlight streaming in through the windows.

While the stew simmered and the bread was left to prove, Hannibal seemed keen to keep the momentum, and not allow Will time to dwell. He brought out the jackets, his from his bedroom, Will’s from the garage.

Will noted that Hannibal did not ask if Will would like to go on a walk, but rather dictate the activity with an air of authority, as if prescribing breathing exercises for anxiety.

Grudgingly, he had to admit that not being given the choice was a wise move on the part of the Doctor, as while he was positive that the fresh air would do him good, his exertions in the garage had brought a weariness to his bones, and if asked, he might have well said no.

Words were not needed, and so the space between them was unpolluted with unnecessary noise as they ventured out the door and into the trees. Even though regular excursions had forged trails through the forest, Hannibal still took a moment to mark their direction on the compass, and consulted it regularly.

Will took the lead, and walked with a strange momentum, surging forwards as if he wanted to delve into the deepest part of the forest, where the sun could not blind his eyes. The path to the lake, or to follow the road were too easily tread, and he wanted something that would require his attention, picking his way through roots and branches and slick mud.

Hannibal let Will walk as he pleased, only interrupting his steps to encourage him to turn left a little, or right, so that their direction would be easier to trace back when it came time to return home.

It was cold, and breaths stung as they were drawn. The light could not filter through the pine needles, and the darkness was meant Will had to be careful not to miss a jutting piece of wood, or patch of mulched leaves that would not hold his weight. 

They had not gone far, when Will found that the chill was creeping through his coat. Movement ahead, deep into the disorientating dark, and Will jerked his head up, trying to peer through the gloom. When he stopped that he could better see, Hannibal came a step behind, not realising that Will had ceased to walk forwards. 

He expected to see the profile of his stag, its presence a familiar sight and almost routine in its incursions into his waking hours. He scanned back and forth, but could not see tufted feathers nor curved antler. 

He was about to dismiss the vision as a trick of the light, the surrounding branches interwoven together and a perfect mimic of an antlers prongs. Hannibal however, made a surprised noise and lifted his head. 

“Your eyes are keen. I’d have walked right past and not noticed.”

“You can see it?” Will did not take his eyes from the patch of trees that had caught his attention, but he was confused that the Stag had seemed to allow Hannibal to behold its form. He then realised that such a thought didn’t even make sense… Perhaps they were as mad as each other.

“I see something…” Hannibal took a small step forwards, heading straight towards the area Will was staring at.

With a scuffle and a flash of fur, a striped tail flicked in warning as a raccoon ran from them.

The hobbled gait of the retreating creature, like it moved with a skip to the step, made Will gasp with delight.

“It’s Rover!”

Surprised, but not quite so joyful, Hannibal’s head tracked as the animal disappeared from sight; “So it is…”

Will would not let Hannibal’s tone deter him, and he let a smile fill his face, satisfied that Rover was not yet gone from his world.

“I want to head back, and put out some food for her. Maybe we can get her to stay.”

With something of an exasperated sigh, and Hannibal nodded. “Very well. Though I still cannot fathom the appeal in having animal in close proximity, let alone encouraging it.”

They started back, and Will tried to think of an argument that might enlighten his sour counterpart.

“Animals are interesting to watch. They don’t have all the rules and restrictions we humans put on ourselves. I thought you’d at least be interested in observing the natural order of things, uncomplicated by human values.”

Hannibal seemed in contemplation, as he checked with his compass that they were headed home, and not tangenting off into parts unknown.

“I suppose the simplicity of animals might be a nice change. Do you feel them the same as you would a human, with your empathy?”

“Do you still give credit to my so-called empathetic talents? After all, I missed you when you were right in front of me.” Will is surprised at the venom in his voice, and it tastes acidic on his tongue. He contorted his face into what he hoped would be taken as a wry grin, should Hannibal happen to look. He did not.

“I was not surprised that I slipped under your radar, as-it-were. I worked very hard to remain undetected.”

Will made a sound in his throat, half an acknowledgement of Hannibal’s talents to masquerade, half irritation that he managed so well. He’d have felt worse if he did not know that Jack, and Dr Bloom had likewise been taken in. He dug his hands into his pockets.

“When it comes to animals, I’m not really that tuned in. I can understand when a dog is hungry, or hurt, but I can’t get into their heads the same way I can with people…”

“Moreso the charm I imagine.” Hannibal turned back to look, and Will dipped his eyes out of habit. He could hear an amused noise, as if he had just proven Hannibal’s point.

“It’s not that I dislike people…” Will protested, defensive. 

“Of course. You would not put yourself through the psychic mangle if you had no care for your fellow man. But after such rigours, I would not wonder that you preferred the simplicity of a canine companion.”

“Well yeah.. but not just that.”

They could not walk side by side; the trail was too narrow, so it was by Hannibal’s questioning “Oh?” that Will knew further explanation would be needed.

“Humans hide all sorts of things in their heads, not all of it that pleasant to see. I catch glimpses, shadows of darker thoughts, lurking beneath the surface. Dogs don’t have that. They are good, all of them, good in ways that humans can never be.”

Hannibal’s pace slowed, perhaps as he digested the words, perhaps as he navigated over a particularly muddy patch, Will could not tell.

“What of dogs that turn violent and attack their owners? Or worse, the children of the household?”

Will made an inelegant shuffle as he stepped over a root cluster. “Dogs only attack if they’ve been trained to. Or if they are afraid. Or if somewhere in the past they were taught conflicting messages.”

“And wolves? Or tigers? Animals that attack humans for meat? Are they ‘good’ too?”

“When an animal kills a person for food, there is nothing malicious in it, they are just hunting to feed themselves. It’s not nice, and it’s a tragedy for those involved, but the animal is just following its instincts. You can’t blame it for that; it’d be like blaming rain for being wet.”

Up ahead, Will heard dry laughter, and he steeled himself for Hannibal to try and use his reasoning about animals to support the Ripper’s own murderous dining habits. When the comparison was not drawn, Will was given time to wonder how Hannibal saw himself and his actions. Did the refined doctor see himself as performing to his primal natures, or was the behaviour an extreme form of attention seeking?

As ever, it was hard to tell with Hannibal. Even with all the time they had spent together, Will did not feel confident he’d ever seen the man in any way that Hannibal did not wish him to see. There were masks, and veils, and walls, so much so Will was not sure he’d ever figure him out.

It did mean, however, that the cannibalistic monster was well hidden, and Will did not have to worry about seeing Hannibal’s darker nature in passing.

It was almost unfair, that Hannibal could so easily disguise himself, and keep secrets safely hidden from view. A brief pang of jealousy ran though the empath, that the doctor could exude such control his own thoughts and feelings, let alone not have to contend with the wild monsoon of emotion of others. Then he remembered the price. 

Psychopathy. 

Manipulative, and self-serving, with little or no compassion for others. The term certainly seemed to fit the Ripper, but the man Will had coffee with in the mornings, and joked about naming raccoons with, seemed to shirk the title. No single word could sum up Hannibal, and his motives were mysterious, the final goal unknowable.

On that front, even though he obviously cared little for Rover, Hannibal accompanied Will into the kitchen, collecting one of the saucepans previously used from outside (Will saw them piled beside the refuse sacks, and realised that they were designed for the trash) to fill with various foodstuffs. Another raw egg, and the messy remains of Will’s pasta, as well as a couple of biscuits broken up into pieces were gathered together.

“Have you thought about _where_ we shall put this veritable feast?” Hannibal asked, eyeing the saucepan like he would very much like to tidy up the presentation.

“I thought out by the tree line…” Will picked it up, and heading out of the kitchen. Hannibal moved ahead to open the door.

“If I might suggest… I intent to take the truck out, now the snow has cleared, so you could put the dish in sight of your bedroom window?”

Rather than dread at being locked in while Hannibal was absent, Will was hopeful at being able to entice Rover to take up home nearby. He nodded, and they set up the saucepan somewhere where it would not tip, and that Will could observe from his room.

Hannibal promised that he would try not to be too long in getting fresh supplies, but Will was already sitting on the bed, looking out into the forest.


	20. Chapter 20

Evening had darkened the sky by the time Hannibal returned. There had been no sign of Rover, but a few birds had darted past, picking out the choicest morsels. Will was not too disheartened, he’d long ago learnt patience was key when dealing with dogs, and he imaged wild raccoons would need a similarly unrushed pace.

They ate bread and stew, with a robust red wine Hannibal had picked up while out. 

“Tomorrow, if the weather is fair, can we go out again for a walk?”

“I see no reason why not.”

“And…” Will hesitated, “.. and I could take some biscuits… Just in case we see Rover again.”

Hannibal smiled, not unkindly, as if he had gained new appreciation for Will’s fixation on the raccoon. “If you like.”

In the morning, Will came into the kitchen to find Hannibal already awake, dressed and working at something on the counter, with twine and rapid twisting movements of his wrists.

A sudden panic that Hannibal had caught Rover, and was in the process of trussing her up for the oven overwhelmed Will, and he rushed forward, pushing Hannibal out the way so he could see.

Hannibal swayed, the physical contact initiated by Will so rare as to catch him off guard. He tipped his head, puzzled, as Will saw that he had been tying bits of raw sausage to a long length of string, like a garland.

“Good morning.” He said slowly, his tone displeased.

Will shrank back, puzzlement overtaking his panic. He could not think of how to explain himself without causing offence, and he could not fathom what on earth Hannibal was doing.

“I… sorry…” he managed to stutter out, and Hannibal set upon him a disapproving look.

“…you surprised me. Sorry.” he finished weakly. He turned, and started to make coffee, hoping the act of noisily grinding beans would avoid further conversation. True enough, the loud whirl of blades against beans dissuaded Hannibal from saying anything more, but that also meant Will still had no idea what the string and sausages were for, and could not raise the issue without reopening the topic of his odd behaviour.

Breakfast was awkward, doubly so because Will could not hide his desire to finish quickly and go out walking. Hannibal’s slow pace appeared set to infuriate, and it seemed he took extra time over savouring each mouthful to add to Will’s impatience.

Finally, Hannibal set aside his fork, and looked at Will. “Shall I get the coats?”

Will nodded, “Please.”

“Very well. If you’d be so kind as to put the dishes by the sink then?”

The coats were fetched, and they added the extra layers before opening the front door, to better trap the heat near their bodies. Hannibal wrapped the string and sausages up in parchment paper, smiling at Will as he did so. Will may have wanted to ask, but Hannibal seemed to be enjoying his secrecy too much for the reply to be anything but a vague hint at the purpose.

Will, in something of a brittle mood, stuffed his pockets with biscuits, not minding that they almost immediately fell to pieces. Hannibal regarded the bulging clothing, and gave a soft sigh as if resigned to the multitude of crumbs that would result. 

They walked out, and Hannibal guided them to the saucepan visible from Will’s window. Dew had collected on the contents, reducing the pieces of biscuits too large for the birds to pinch to a sodden mush that clung to the shell of the egg. With a flick of his wrist, he unwrapped his sausage parcel, and held one piece of the string, while letting the other trail to the ground.

“The forest is wide, and I thought your raccoon might need a little help locating the food left for it. We can leave a scent trail, to aid it in finding its way.”

“That… that’s a really good idea Hannibal.” Will was pleasantly surprised, and so could forgive that Hannibal continued to refer to Rover as an ‘it’.

Dr Lecter shrugged, as if it was obvious that his efforts would be deemed as clever. Will chuckled at his ego, and together they journeyed into the woods, dragging the string and sausages as they did so.

****

Days later, and Rover had found her way to the house. Hannibal accepted this, and did not scare her off when he first caught sight of the muddy coloured beast as he jogged in the dawn. Having the creature nearby, but not actively housed was the best of both worlds; he could enjoy Will’s upbeat mood, without having to tolerate the stink of the animal.

He watched as he later prepared lunch, as Will crouched outside, trying to lure her closer with bits of cheese and jam. She was still wild, and very shy, but she had started to associate Will with food, and slowly but surely she was starting to become less nervous in the company of man.

She had come close enough that Will had tried to lift an arm to pet her, but she had spooked and ran away, looking back from a safe distance to glare at him for his insolence. Privately, Hannibal was glad. He still worried about fleas and disease, and did not trust that a bite would not require antibodies and shots, all of which were troublesome to secure.

Will came in then, but even though he’d scared the raccoon off, he seemed happy. His eyes were bright, and met Hannibal’s without difficulty, as he asked what they were having for lunch. Over lunch, he was particularly animated and talkative, and Hannibal basked in his cheer.

He continued to not use the name Will had dubbed the raccoon, partly because he did not see the point when the beast in question would not care either way what it was called, but also to subtly reinforce to Will that he did not hold the animal in any form of regard, and that his efforts with the sausage were for the man’s benefit, not the beasts’.

It was a few days afterwards, with Will safely by the fire reading, he decided he would treat himself to something from the freezer. He lifted the heavy lid, and was met with disappointment.

A full and fatty liver that he had been looking forward to had fallen next to the ice surrounding the freezing element. On inspection, he found that most of the meat had suffered freezer burns, despite his careful wrapping and placement.

The resulting portion would be rather merger, and Hannibal’s lips turned downwards in a scowl at this last insult delivered by the incredibly crass gentleman he had caught calling at anything female that happened to wander too close. Grant Kinstone could at least have had the decency to provide a full meal, but it seemed his liver, like his wolf-whistles, was excessively aggravating. 

Hannibal suspected Will must have bumped the freezer when he was cleaning after the raccoon, and caused the wrapped meat to come in contact with the sides. He sighed, and pulled the liver out anyway, figuring that the damage was done and he was best to use what he could, after first making sure all his other pieces were safe.

In the kitchen, far from where Will would see and disapprove, he chopped the liver, cutting the over exposed sections off. He was about to regretfully cast them into the bin when he saw outside, Rover snuffling about. She cast her head forwards and back, most likely looking hopefully for Will, who had been feeding her regularly. 

Mood rapidly brightening, Hannibal gathered the offcuts, and headed outside. He was quiet, but unhurried, and Will did not even look up from his kindle. 

He did not try to coax the raccoon closer, but instead dropped the offcuts on the ground and then walk away, allowing Rover to approach in her own time.

She fell upon the meat, stuffing as much as she could into her mouth before running back to the treeline to eat it, chewing nosily. Hannibal watched, amused that she liked the taste so much, and revelling that Will would not know about the nutritional supplement to his little companion’s dining habits. It pleased him to know that Will would be oblivious, and should the issue of Hannibal’s own choice of foodstuffs come up, it would provide interesting fodder for shifting Will’s views. That he could care for a beast that had dined on human flesh, and it made no difference other than to his own morals.

Grinning, he returned to the kitchen, and started to sauté onions and mushrooms to have with his liver, that he would serve on grilled toast.

It was delicious.


	21. Chapter 21

Rover had taken up residence nearby, and had become common sight in the forests and grounds of the house. Without walls to cage her, she seemed calmer and more confident, and she could be found digging at fence posts, or sniffing at the stairs of the house.

Will often came out onto the porch for fresh air or a chance to stretch his legs, and if she was nearby, Rover would come snuffling forwards. Whilst she would still not tolerate touch, she had taken to pottering after him, ever hopeful for food. Hannibal might have complained at the crumbs he constantly found in Will’s pockets, but he made no attempts to curb Will’s companionship of the raccoon.

He should have been content; he had Rover’s presence to amuse him, and Hannibal had been surprisingly accommodating over the whole issue. He was glad that she’d decided to stay, and often raided the kitchen for titbits for her. The feathered stag however, had likewise taken to patrolling the local environs, and the sight of it filled Will with a sense of unease.

It would circle the house, fur and feathers so dark it seemed like it was dragging shadows. It took each step with pointed poise, like a spider, slow and precise. 

Will got the feeling it was stalking him, an odd behaviour for an animal more commonly based at the other end of the food chain. Prey turned predatory. He wondered if it was jealous of the attention he gave to the raccoon, or if it was sign of something more sinister. 

He tried to ignore it, but then he’d catch sight of it suddenly as if shifted into view, and would look up at the treeline so sharply that Rover would become skittish and unsure.

Hannibal also caused her to shy away, not having worked to earn her trust. She’d watch him warily if he came out to join Will, and pace from side to side as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to approach. 

On one occasion, Hannibal remarked “Even though its instincts tell it to run, it does not. It has become accustomed to our presence.”

Will looked up, and tipped his head in acknowledgement of Hannibal’s presence. “I suppose she has become a bit domesticated now. Though I don’t think she’s ever going to let me stroke her.”

“Does that bother you? You fed and continue to feed the animal, kept it safe, and it has shown little in the way of gratitude.”

“Nah, I’m happy enough that she has stuck around…” Will fell silent, and then turned to Hannibal eyes narrowed.

Hannibal used the word ‘it’ to refer to the raccoon, and Will had thought it purely Hannibal’s way of showing he had no affection for the creature, but now he could see that the way Hannibal was wording his statements could mean he was referring to Will.

“…Is that how you see me? Some sort of pet to keep around?”

Hannibal’s brows rose slightly at the suddenness of the accusation, and he tipped his head to the side. Rover, seeing that there was no food on offer, had started to scuffle on, possibly hastened by the sharpness of Will’s voice.

“You are a companion.” 

“Pets can be companions.” Will countered.

Hannibal took a deep breath, and folded his hands in front of him, looking past Will to the forest. “Yes. They can.”

Will, frustrated and a little alarmed that Hannibal might see him as a pet and not a person, curled his fingers against the cold, his nails digging into his palms. When it was clear Hannibal would say no more on the matter, he turned on his heel and went back inside the house, retreating into his own room. 

The house, locked rooms and keypads and isolation, was not his home, no matter how much Hannibal might try to pretend otherwise.

He grew increasingly agitated, angry at himself for being lulled by warm fireplaces and shared bottles of wine over dinner. 

Will wondered if Hannibal was cultivating the sense of the domestic to mess with his mind. He’d also not put it past Hannibal to have constructed the entire situation as ironic commentary on normality and the foolish ideals of the sheep-like population. 

Recognising that Rover had been too much of a distraction, Will pledged to refocus his attentions on escape, before he became too much domesticated himself.

****

Will kept his usual routines, so as not to raise suspicion, and Rover made for ideal cover for lingering outside near Hannibal’s room. 

He could feed and talk to her, while checking the entry points of the cables, and the contents of his capturer’s quarters.

The window seemed to be reinforced, like his own, but the view inside remained as he remembered from his single venture inside. The mirror stood tall, and he used it to his advantage, now he could place the objects in the room as seen from different perspective. He could not see a keypad on the inside, and after checking carefully that there was not one in sight, he began to formulate a plan.

He could not use the phone or computer inside Hannibal’s room without the passwords, but he wondered if he could not force Hannibal himself to contact the outside world for help. Bitter tasting memories of the trapped feeling of being locked in his own room, and he felt that even Hannibal would suffer under the same circumstances. 

He would imprison Hannibal in his room, and from there demand that he contact the police, and inform them of his whereabouts. 

He would need however, the passcode to Hannibal’s door.

Working in the kitchen in the morning allowed him to easily take a spoon and hide it up his sleeve. From then, he took to sitting with his back to Hannibal’s room, the chair already facing forwards towards the fire. Once he was settled, he started to slip the spoon out and rest it in against the kindle, ready to slip into his lap if Hannibal were to look over. It took a little practice at positioning, but he grew more confident, and less afraid he would be caught in the middle of his efforts. 

He’d had to pace himself. Too much of a change might alert Hannibal, and so he practiced patience, and only read in the particular chair every day or so, and the other times he would talk with Hannibal, or wander outside, or treat Rover to a choice piece of cheese or fruit from the fridge. At glacial speed, he waited and watched, biding his time until Hannibal needed to enter his room.

Unfortunately, the spoon’s reflection was much too distorted to properly see when Hannibal was at his door. Will cursed the wasted opportunities; Hannibal only rarely having need to go into his room during the day, and weeks passing while Will found suitable position and placement of the cutlery that did not seem out of the ordinary.

The carving knife however, with gleaming polished surface, proved much more effective.

Hannibal appeared to have memorised the code till he typed it automatically, and his movements as he entered the code were almost too quick to process. After watching several times as Hannibal worked the keypad, Will could started to take educated guess at the combination, from the movements of Hannibal’s elbow as he entered the code.

The knife itself was larger than the spoon, and much harder to secret about his person, but his efforts with the spoon had caused him to become quite skilled at cutlery manipulation. The blade did stand chance at being missed however, so Will had to return it to the kitchen after every attempt.

Soon, Will was confident that he had worked out the code and order of the digits, but since he had but one chance he needed to be certain.

He made bread, early one bright morning when the sun was still in process of rising. Forsaking an apron, he ensured that he was clumsy enough with the flour that he had a fine dusting over his arms and clothes. 

As he set the bread to prove, he went to his room, to change shirts now that his was covered in flour, and as he passed, coughed, just enough that a cloud of flour rose up around the keypads to his and Hannibal’s room.

He changed his clothes, and then came out his room, and looked over the keypads as he shut his bedroom door. The oils of a fingerprint had rendered the surface sticky at the points of contact, and the flour clung to the digits of the passcodes. Out of mild interest he made mental note of the digits that locked him in, but he was unable to guess at the order. Hannibal’s however, matched his estimate in all but one digit, and he saw that what he had thought was a 7 was actually an 8. 

In a perfect world, he would have used the knife again to ensure that it was indeed an ‘8’, but the flour would no doubt catch Hannibal’s attention, and he could not risk Hannibal changing the codes as precaution, and undoing all his efforts.

“It is a nice day out, and the bread still has to prove. Shall we go for a walk? I want to see if the fish have started to stir; they’ve been sluggish and sleeping through winter, but the weather seems to be warming now.”

He hoped that Hannibal would not notice the flour as he went to fetch the coats. Even if he did, as long as he entered the room, Will would have the opportunity he needed.

He did not look up as Hannibal left the kitchen, but listened to his footsteps. They sounded in regular meter, not pausing as they crossed the threshold to his bedroom.

He did not have shoes on, and tried to be as quiet as possible as he hurried to the door, pulling it closed and quickly typing in the passcode, heart hammering.

The grind of metal locking shut stole his breath, and he gasped at his success, the door secure and Hannibal trapped within.

“Will?” From within Hannibal voice emanated, and Will was delighted to hear, sounded surprised. He grinned wide with glee.

“Hannibal.” He said, his voice high-pitched with excitement, “I would like you to call Jack, and tell him where we are. I cannot use the phone, or the computer… but you can.”

“Ah…. Very clever, and ever so daring. I suppose you’ll refuse to open the door unless I do?”

“I will not open the door till the police have arrived.” Will was not stupid; a phone call could be faked when he could only hear Hannibal’s side of the dialogue, and nothing less than proof he was truly rescued and that his captivity was over would cause him to even contemplate releasing Hannibal.

A faint click of teeth, and he knew Hannibal was pressed against the other side of the door, so close he could hear the edge of his breathing, even through the thick door.

“Should I make my confession to Jack also? Let him know that the Ripper is at last captured and contained?”

Will shook his head, even though there was no-one to see, “I don’t care about that. I just want out.” 

“Interesting.” Came the voice from the other side, far too calm and controlled for Will’s liking. He straightened.

“I’m done talking. You know my demands, and I will not bend on them.” he was about to turn from the door, when a pang of empathy hit him. His voice softened. “I’d advise not lingering over the decision. I know how maddening it can get locked up in a room for days….”

He did not mention that since he dared not open the door, Hannibal would not have the luxury of having meals brought to him. Sooner or later, the cannibal was going to get _hungry_.

Then, as guilt started to creep through his thoughts that he was subjecting Hannibal to the very same crime of captivity that he hated so much, he heard something from within Hannibal’s room beep. 

_Just the phone,_ he thought desperately, already backing away, _or the computer starting up_. 

His breath juddered to a stop as he heard the door unlock with a resounding clunk.

Scrambling back, he fell against the chair from which he’d watched for the code, as the man himself exited his room, his appearance more fearful than any reflection in a blade.

“An override.” Hannibal said simply, walking forwards. “and though I saw the flour that must have betrayed the numbers, I find that I cannot fathom how you figured out the correct sequence…”

Each step advanced him towards Will, not so calm and controlled, but his eyes dilated wide, and his face strangely animated.

Will felt the wall at his back, and froze, Hannibal coming up swiftly to block his escape. An arm either side of his head, and eyes fixed on his, curious, excited.

“Tell me, how did you work out the code?”

There was no point in hiding his methods, and Will did not want to see what Hannibal might do to pull the answer from him. He ducked his head down.

“A.. a knife. I used the reflection in a knife to see your arm… when you typed the code in the door. Been watching, looking at the position of your arm, learning the sequence.”

Hannibal let out a small noise, Will thought it might be approval or admiration but without seeing the face it was hard to tell. 

“Brilliant boy…” murmuring in a hushed voice, Hannibal brought himself closer, caging Will in with his body till they stood chest to chest. Will glanced up, as the backs of fingers curled into a palm brushed against his cheek. He flinched, trying to pull away, but he was blocked by Hannibal’s strong arm on his other side.

The touch was soft, but Will dreaded what it might lead to. He forced himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes, that the other man might see how much this threatened to overwhelm.

Hannibal continued to stroke against his cheek, eyes full of wonder and affection, before stopping suddenly, as he took in Will’s tight jaw. There was a long moment of hesitation, where Will did not know whether Hannibal would push further or withdraw, before Hannibal stepped back.

Will nearly sobbed with relief, and scrubbed at his cheek with the back of his sleeve, as if trying to undo the memory of the touch, so tender and terrifying.

Hannibal’s face was unapologetic, and he stood with an intensity that made Will unsure that the danger had passed.

With something like resignation, Hannibal blinked, and once again his face was carefully composed. He turned his head to look to his bedroom door.

“I think I shall retire to my bedroom for a period.” He said softly. Then his lips twitched into a smile. “I would appreciate not being locked in this time.”

Will could only nod, silent and shaken, and disbelieving of the fact he was still breathing.


	22. Chapter 22

Inside his room, Hannibal sat down heavily upon his bed, slowing his breathing and willing his heart-rate to calm.

He was tempted, sorely so, and with rather abrupt realisation, came to the conclusion that he wanted so much more than Will would be willing to offer.

That in itself was not surprising, but he was somewhat taken aback by just how much his control had been unravelled by his houseguest, and how sudden his desires had sprung, and how strong.

He had always been attracted to Will, both his body and mind enticing, but he had always assumed that he would be able to hold himself in check, given all his months of planning. He had not expected Will to have such detrimental affect upon his willpower, and was doubly fascinated by his little emapth.

His breaths were steady, and set at a smooth pace, but he could not deny that coming so close to Will, the touch of his cheek, had awoken something that could not be ignored.

So, drawing on his training and experiences, he decided to let his desires loose, and grant them full acknowledgement. Only by accepting what he felt, would he be able to control himself. He settled back on the bed, and let his eyes slip shut.

He wanted Will. Carnally, deep and writhing. 

Another time, he might imagine kisses, exploring past lips, flexing against tongue, but his current need required something a little more explicit. 

He’d seen what Will hid under his clothes, and had been suitably impressed. He had an attractive shade to his skin (especially when blushing), and his tone promised pleasing firmness to the touch. Hannibal would like to run fingertips down chest and ribcage, and feel the bones beneath muscle and skin.

Shy, Will would need coaxing to reciprocate, but Hannibal thought the man had potential to be a passionate and attentive lover, not least because his empathic response would encourage generosity. Hannibal thought that he would enjoy exploring Will’s body, but moreso when he would allow Will to do the same, watching as he discovered lean muscles and soft, smooth skin; the produce of a body well-maintained.

Hannibal would have to be careful not to rush, and miss basking in admiration. Eventually though, he would prepare Will, careful and slow, using lubrication that would not mask the scent. He had such a bottle already placed in his bedroom.

When it came time to actually perform the act that already had him breathless at the thought, Will would be tight, his insides clutching at his erection, and his expressive face would broadcast the sensations, allowing Hannibal his own share of empathy. 

It might be that Will would never consent, and that the only way for Hannibal to indulge would be to tie and truss and _take_. He would not do such a thing, for sake of Will’s sanity and spirit, carefully cultivated, but also because he saw himself as a benevolent host. As master of the house, he had responsibility for those in his care, and that he’d not be so crass as to rape his houseguest.

He was better than succumbing to his baser desires, but he still made note of their existence, thrilling at the thought of the taboo.

His hand had undone the buttons of his trousers, and in slow scintillating strokes he touched himself, as his flesh engorged. He was unhurried, hedonistic, appreciating both the warm flesh of his palm against his hardening skin and the occasional scrap of nails to elicit shivers across his nerves. His senses spun as he layered thoughts to the experience, and imagined how Will would feel, and smell… and taste.

He would see Will shudder, as he claimed and ruined, the sight of him in ecstasy as appealing as the sight of him stricken with terror. He wanted everything; Will’s tears and laughter and joy and blood. 

Unaffected by the constraints of thought imposed by society, he realised that he would very much like to bite, down to the bone, as Will squirmed beneath him.

Ah, but that was rather primal and while the act would surely be born of passion, he knew from experience and experiments that raw human meat was rather unappealing; bloody and difficult to digest, with a harsh flavour. In order to truly appreciate the flesh, he would have to move from the bed to the kitchen.

The scene swam as it shifted, silk sheets fading and in their place; marble counter tops and the heavy stove. Hannibal took a small moment to enjoy the mastery of his mind, everything adapting to his needs. His hand upon his cock changed pace, as he found new visions to please him, his passions merging.

He would cook Will’s meat simply. He could not think of any ingredient, beyond virgin olive oil and salt, that would not subtract from the dish. Even wine would be forfeit, for sake of such fair, exquisite and succulent.

He would plate up without adornments; no dressing, no garnish. Just the essence of Will, his heart, roasted slowly till tender, then set to the side, to allow the juices to continue to permeate through. It would slice easily, and the rich smell would fill the room, as he cut into thick muscle, the texture like finest fillet. He would have to lift the fork swiftly to his mouth, it would drip otherwise.

As he conjured that first forbidden bite into flesh in his mind, in glorious detail pulled from both experience and fantasy, he found his release. 

The machinations of the body, and the surges of hormones and fluid did not disturb him, but rather he took on a clinical approach to their presence. He luxuriated for long minutes in the afterglow, his arms and legs pleasantly heavy, and contentment washing over his mood. He felt much calmer, and the tensions that had hurried his pulse ebbed low. 

He removed his trousers, to save them getting soiled, and made his way to the bathroom to clean up. He did not think that Will would notice he had changed his trousers, the man would be much more concerned about the prospect of punishment for his ingenious efforts.

He supposed he could lock Will in his room, but that seemed petty, especially when Hannibal was so impressed at the resource shown. Whilst he did not want to discourage Will’s creativity, he probably did not want to encourage such endeavours either, for risk that Will might actually by chance succeed, and then Hannibal would have to hunt him down.

He settled for adopting an air of mirth, as if he found Will’s attempt at escape amusing, that Will might take from it that he was not expected to ever actually be able to leave. It would serve well to chip at his resolve, without introducing any new friction.

He would have to be careful; Will would likely be more wary than usual, and he had terrible habit of swinging between defensive and angered, with very little in the way of warning. However, he felt calm and patient, and confident that he would be able to smooth out any panics or bouts of shouting, now that he had his desires properly excised and curtailed for the time being. 

At the very least, he would not frighten Will by the sight of any uncalled-for erections for a few hours.


	23. Chapter 23

Hannibal emerged, after first taking some time sitting at his desk to ensure his trousers did not look not neatly pressed as to draw attention. He could not immediately see Will, but he followed the noise of someone pouring liquid far too fast.

Will was on the floor, propped against the wall by the drinks cabinet, glass in hand and with exaggerated movements filling it with a particularly fine brandy. The bottle, Hannibal noted with distain, was already half empty, and it seemed that Will had sampled some of the whiskeys and vodkas before he had turned exclusively to the imported spirit. There were spills on his shirt, and the floor, and the sting of evaporating alcohol hung heavy in the air.

With unfocused eyes, and a head that swayed upon his neck, Will looked up. He raised the glass, as if toasting, before drinking it in clumsy gulps, a dribble sipping free from the glass and dripping down his chin.

Hannibal sighed. “I am disappointed in you Mr Graham.”

“Would’ve thought you’d apprish…” Slurring badly, Will frowned as his tongue failed to pronounce his words, “_appreciate” he corrected with satisfaction, in the process forgot what he was going to say next. He paused, and Hannibal folded his arms, pulling on his patience.

Will’s head lolled, and he swayed to one side, at such an angle Hannibal thought he might tip over. “Would have thought that you’d appreciate me being ready soused!” Will finished, triumphant, grinning wide at his own joke.

Hannibal tried to block the image immediately conjured, but his recent imaginings had primed his mind and he found himself picturing Will’s kidneys, soaked in French wine, just enough to colour the outer edges, and cooked quickly in butter. The texture would be divine, melting upon the tongue, and his mouth watered at the thought. 

Will suddenly turned fearful, as if seeing Hannibal’s imagined meal of him, and he cowed, quiet and still. The glass was pushed to the side, discarded, and Will curled in on himself defensively.

Absently, Hannibal wondered if he has underestimated the accuracy of Will’s empathic abilities, or if the excess alcohol had lowered whatever internal barriers Will had put in place and allowed him to see things he hid from himself. 

He did thought it would be too dangerous to subject to further experimentation, however interesting the results might be. 

“Let us get you to bed. I fancy that sleep might be the best thing here, as you seem in no fit state for much else.”

He extended a hand down to help Will to his feet, and Will just stared, eyes wide. 

Jaw clenched, and his good mood rapidly evaporating, Hannibal gave his outstretched hand a meaningful shake.

“Unless you would rather sleep upon the floor?”

Will shook his head, the motion repeating unnecessarily as his head lowered, his eyes blinking slow.

However, when his hand was still not reached for, Hannibal gave a small sigh. His exasperation was evident in his brisk footfalls as he walked to the kitchen, and fetched forth a glass of water. When he returned, Will was nervously watching for him, as if frightened that he might have gone to collect blade or skillet.

He handed the water over, and bade Will take on liquid that would rehydrate . “Here, drink this.” He said, but on hearing the terseness in his voice which was doing little to undo Will’s fear, he spoke again, this time more softly; “It will help.”

Will eyed the glass, and then took a tentative sip. He looked to Hannibal to see if that would suffice. With upturned fingers flexing skyward, he gestured that Will should finish the glass.

“I would advise at least two glasses Will. You’ll thank me come the morning.”

The suggestion might have been sound, but Will seemed in no state of mind to heed Hannibal; hardly thirsty after the amount he had drank. His movements were sluggish, and uncoordinated, and he seemed liable to fall asleep at any given moment. 

“As you like. I shall bring through some bottles of water in case you change your mind…. And some painkillers.”

By the time Hannibal returned with the promised items, Will had slumped down the wall, the alcohol in his system dragging his limbs downwards. 

With a sigh, and some creative juggling of water bottles, Hannibal managed to pull Will upright. His balance was shocking, and he very nearly had them both crashing to the ground, as he tilted trying to pull away. Hannibal’s grip was frim, and with perhaps more abruptness than was necessary, he steered Will to his bedroom.

At the threshold, he released his hand, and Will stumbled forwards. 

“Will, the water…” he said, and pulled the bottles out from under his arm were he had been carrying them, and the painkillers from a pocket. 

Will turned, and warily took the items, grasping them to his chest. 

“I shall see you in the morning. Good night.” 

Hannibal started back, to clean up the mess made of his drinks cabinet, when he heard Will shut the bedroom door. It muffled, but did not completely mask, the heavy sound of a body falling into bed, clothes still on. Hannibal tutted to himself.

Once he had rearranged the bottles and glasses to his satisfaction, he saw that the glass Will had been drinking from was still out, with two fingers of brandy still left.

It was not the preferred balloon, designed to swirl the liquid, but Hannibal could not help but take the glass and lift it to his own lips. 

The warmth that crept over him, did much to ease his mind-set from angered to understanding, and he settled into an armchair, taking in the last of the brandy in front of the fire. 

Will would have been upset at his grand plan failing, and fearful of reprisal, and had probably taken the decision to get so drunk as means of escaping, if only temporarily. Not the most clever of endeavours, and disappointingly mundane after his flash of brilliance, but better than to try and take his life. 

It also allowed Hannibal to exercise his role as care-giver, and he thought that Will would appreciate a fresh fruit juice muddled with basil, and dry toast in the morning, and be spared the task of having to prepare breakfast himself. He would make coffee too, but weak, as not to aggravate a delicate stomach.

From within Will’s bedroom, he could hear loud snoring, which brought out a small smile, though the noise was tuneless and grating.

****

In the morning, a rather worn looking Will made apology for his behaviour the previous night. Hannibal gave grateful nod, and declared that they would say no more on the subject.

Neither mentioned the new lock fitting that adorned the drinks cabinet.


	24. Chapter 24

Will tried not to let the despondency rule over his disposition, but after his latest botched attempt to break free of the Ripper’s grasp, he found it hard to not dwell upon his failures.

At first he blamed a rather fierce but deserved hangover for his demeanour, but over the next few days, he found that he could not pull free of his darker thoughts.

Rover, helpfully, found his reflective and quiet mood preferable to his repeated efforts to pet her fur, and had settled into shadowing him while outside or on the porch. She’d even curled and napped in his presence, though Will found the demonstration of trust did not please him as it should. It seemed only to accentuate his harmlessness, that despite all his training he did not pose danger to raccoon nor felon.

He and Hannibal went on walks, the pace slower than usual. Even the sight of tiny green buds on the foliage, and the promise of a fresh wash of pine needles erupting from the trees as spring neared, did not perk his spirits.

Hannibal seemed to set to undo his maudlin mood, persisting in walks and conversation to distract him from himself, but occasionally Will would catch Hannibal looking at him, not at his face, but eyes lingering upon the skin of his cheek, or to his chest. He was reminded abruptly that he shared the house with a cannibal, though the anxiety conjured was not much better than the permeating moroseness, and it seemed he swung between fear and melancholy without space for breath in-between.

Soon, he found it was taking a toll on him. During the night his sleep was fragmented, and his waking hours were lethargic and low. He avoided the kitchen when Hannibal was present. His side of conversations became mono-syllabic.

He could tell the persistence of his low outlook was something of a trial for Hannibal. The doctor tried time and again, alternating between giving him space to think things through for himself, before deciding that was taking too long and again starting a fresh dialogue, drawing out words like teeth. The man had even tried to talk about Rover, in an attempt to find subject matter to engage him.

Meals were increasingly designed round his sweet tooth, creamy dishes flavoured with spice, a multitude of berry-based sauces and jus and even honey glaze upon baby carrots, already sweet and tender. Will left most of what was on his plate, no matter how much Hannibal might coax him to finish.

A faint warning tension tightened round his head, causing headaches that painkillers would not ease, as he realised he might be deliberately trying Hannibal’s patience, testing him to see at what point he’d give up on his notion of having a houseguest, and instead see Will as just another troublesome swine fit only for food.

Such thoughts should have galvanised the recovery of his spirit in efforts to save himself, but instead he wondered if it would not be better to simply let Hannibal end him; suicide by proxy. It would surely be preferable to the terrible anticipation of a knife in the gut.

Days passed, and Will languished in the chair by the fire, picking at the food offered, and saying very little. Hannibal’s hungry gazes intensified, especially over meals that took much of his time to prepare, and yet he held himself in check; not so much as an untoward word, let alone inkling of violence.

Will started to wonder if he had misread the situation; if Hannibal desired him as a bed partner, not dinner. 

He recalled his drunken flash of insight then, and with growing confusion came to realise that Hannibal wanted both, but as he had said in front of the mirror, not without Will’s permission. His seemingly endless tolerance for Will, low moods and escape attempts and raccoons and all, only proved to Will that he was not at risk. Though it took some time for him to properly assimilate that thought, by the evening meal he felt strangely safe, as he sat with Hannibal as they ate mushroom risotto with chestnuts.

For the first time in days, Hannibal did not have to urge Will’s fork, and without realising, he found he had cleared his plate.

Hannibal smiled, and declared that he had something special, and brought out two portions of elderflower glace with thin slices of crystallised lime, served in little glass bowls that rang out like crystal with each clink of the teaspoon.

It was a light and refreshing dessert, and Will found himself asking how Hannibal had make the lime slices that glistened like coloured glass. Hannibal seemed delighted to detail heating sugar syrups with cardamom pods, cutting the limes with a very sharp knife to achieve wafer thin slices, then stringing and dipping the citrus discs, and then finally hanging the slices over a low heat in the oven.

“Seems like a lot of effort…” Will remarked, not unkindly, as he bit into the lime, sugar crunching loudly and the zest pleasingly sharp.

Hannibal fixed him with a long look before replying; “… But very much worth it.”


	25. Chapter 25

It had been cruel of Will to subject him to such closeness, when Hannibal had all but carried his drunken houseguest to his room that fateful night. It had compounded his desire to touch and ravish, and he felt cheated that although he had been able to inhale Will’s scent, he’d been too focused on keeping them upright to properly enjoy it.

As a result, and as aid to encourage temperance, Hannibal had been shopping for particular items; red wines from the highest vineyards of France, hung meat with a crusted layer of salt twinkling upon the surfaces and cave matured cheeses, all of which were better for being aged. 

He hoped, by surrounding himself with reminders of the benefits of waiting, he might better master his cravings.

Like a vintage wine, it would be easy to open Will up and consume the contents, wholeheartedly savouring every mouthful, but then he would be deprived of Will’s company, which was only just beginning to ripen to proper companionship.

He was put in mind of a particular bottle of Bordeaux that he had been very much looking forward to. He had saved it back, year after year, awaiting the perfect moment to pop the cork. More than once, he’d had to stop himself prematurely opening the bottle, for such meagre occasion as his birthday, or Christmas. When at last he had broken the seal and taken a sip, in celebration of acquiring a 1st edition copy of Carl Jung’s collected papers, it turned out to be bitter disappointment. Not even corked, but the grapes lacklustre and improperly balanced, and inferior to his expectation. 

At first he had felt a great anger well inside him, but after he had taken out his fury on an ingrate yuppie that had had misfortune to scratch his car some months earlier, and pass along his card by means of claiming insurance, he reflected that actually he had derived much enjoyment from the anticipation.

His imaginings had been vivid and pleasing, and it was no wonder the real thing could not surpass the fantastical vintage of his mind.

With Will, the anticipation too, may well be better than the bite. Also, he ought to remind himself, regularly, that Will had far more worth alive and breathing, appetising as the thought of biting into such succulent flesh might be.

He was still tempted by Will, so very tempted, but he was content to wait for his prize. And in the meantime, he had much to occupy his mind, such as how Will might look upon awakening, or in the throes of ecstasy, or with dripping with balsamic glaze.

****

It was strange how much of a different feeling safe made. Will felt more calm than he had in years, that nervous energy that buzzed through his head abated; welcome peace he thought that only death could manage to accomplish.

He still craved his freedom, but he no longer felt like he was trying to escape certain death, just the prospect of spending the rest of his days living with Hannibal Lecter, Chesapeake Ripper and cannibal.

There was one last concern plaguing him, staining his mood like the bitter residue found at the bottom of a coffee cup. Hannibal killed, and partook of the flesh of his victims. The actual act of eating remained a source of discomfort, but he had come to accept that he would not change the cannibal’s eating habits. No, the problem lay in the fact that Hannibal saw his victims as swine, and desecrated their corpses as evidence of his distaste.

And Will had caught glimpse of Hannibal’s hunger, directed at himself. 

The fear that perhaps Hannibal saw him too, as fit only for food, gnawed at him. That he would be kept alive, only till the interest value of a captive empath waned. These lingering, uncomfortable questions kept trying to jump from his tongue, especially over mealtimes. 

So far Will had been doing a heroic job in minding what he spoke.

Over dinner one evening, Will tried to tell himself that Hannibal was enjoying sliced fillet of beef or venison, but he has seen too well the way Hannibal handled the meat, a gleam in his eyes as he seared and cut into the rare flesh.

He could have said nothing, and ate his own meal of lentil stew, with sun-blushed tomatoes and paprika, but he was very aware that his intolerance for Hannibal’s eating habits were one of the few things he knew was separate from Hannibal’s sway. He drew strength that he was still himself in his distaste for flesh, both human and animal.

“… Who was that?” he asked, his voice hardly heard above the opening strains of classical music set to play in the background. Hannibal did not look up immediately, but spear a slice with his fork and consume it greedily, his eyes slipping shut as he chewed upon the meat. It seemed to take an age for him to finish, and Will was struck by just how much pleasure Hannibal pulled from the act.

“Do you truly wish to know?”

“Probably not, but I’m done with pretending that that isn’t human you are eating right now. Might as well face the truth.”

Hannibal looked to his plate, then back at Will, his expression thoughtful. Will knew enough that his question had been unexpected, else Hannibal would have already replied.

“I feel that this conversation deserves my full attention. Will you permit me to finish? It would be a terrible waste otherwise.”

Will nodded, and took a few bites from his own meal, though he felt too tense to risk more than enough mouthfuls to be polite. He set his bowl in the fridge to have later, should his guts settle that he could take in food, and took his glass of wine to the fireplace to await Hannibal.

His glass was empty by the time Hannibal came through, taking up seat by Will’s side. He too had his wine glass, but he set it to the side, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

“So… In answer to your question, that was Samantha Grey.”

Will breathed, a chill running across his spine though he had ample time to prepare himself. He pursed his lips; the name was not known to him. She was not identified as one of the Ripper’s victims, which meant either she had been killed since their move, or that Hannibal had a much higher body count than anyone could have guessed. He did not think he was ready to learn the extent of Hannibal’s murderous tally, so he opted to change his line of questioning.

“I just do not understand why you do it. In all other aspects you are civilised and refined, but _eating_ people… it’s… it’s abominable!”

“Ah… is it? In a certain light, it could be seen as addressing the issue of overpopulation. Surely you accept that if humankind continues its expansion, inevitably resources will start to run out, and those without food will be forced to consider human flesh as sustenance. What we see now as taboo and abhorrent behaviour might in the future become the only way to survive.”

“That’s pure speculation, and does not make what you do any less wrong.”

“Viewpoints consistently shift and change. Whereas keeping a slave was once considered normal, we now deem it to be one of the darker parts of our history. To engage in homosexual acts was by the Greeks wildly accepted, then as the ages turned it was punishable by death. Seeking to ‘cure’ gay men and women was once seen as an act of great virtue, though now we find the notion of chemical castration sickening. I am not denying that what I do is seen as illegal and awful, but I question the labels assigned. Why is eating human meat taboo? Mass deforestation threatens the very world upon which we live; surely alternate sources of sustenance ought to be considered viable alternative.”

Will could tell Hannibal was enjoying himself, and though the topic was unusual, Hannibal spoke with eloquence, with space and pause for his companion to reply, as if they were debating the merits of a wine, rather than rational for devouring human flesh.

“There are reasons some things are taboo. Incest is wrong, because it can cause offspring to be born with genetic deformities. Cannibalism, even without the murder element, of which I strongly object to as well, is dangerous. There was a tribe that all got some form of disease from eating human meat…”

“You refer to Kuru, and the Fore Tribe of Papua New Guinea? Yes, they did become incurably sick after consuming the brain matter of tribe members already affected, thus spreading the disease. This was a rare case, and if you take into consideration the population of the globe, it could be seen as something of an outlaying exception.”  
Hannibal sat back in the chair, making the leather creak. He tilted his chin up, something like pride in his mannerism, “I personally see to it that I do not fall foul of the same pitfall. Those I take are all in perfect health.”

With furrowed brow and slackened mouth, Will’s expression turned to one of disgust. “That’s almost worse. You deprive people of a life that could be long and happy. In fact, you purposefully seek out those who could easily outlive you. It’s pre-planned…. Malice with forethought…”

Hannibal huffed, and drank from his glass. His expression had tightened, although he was not angry Will could see that there was something in what he’d said that Hannibal took objection to.

“I find your standards confusing. Why it is considered better for a police officer to shoot someone by accident, when my actions are always carefully planned and prepared. In both situations, someone dies, but I have intention, and have carefully thought out what I am doing, whereas the hapless police officer is at the whim of a random happenstance. Why do you consider chance a more fitting end?”

There was brief pause, as Will tried to compose his words, and he reached for the empty glass. Seeing that he’d already drunk his wine, he clinked it down again, irritated. When Hannibal carefully slid his own glass to Will, he looked at it with the sharp edge of suspicion. Hannibal merely gestured that Will could take or leave the glass as he chose, and settled back in the chair, awaiting Will’s reply.

Will drank from the glass, quickly checking that there was no discernable difference in taste that might indicate tampering. It was as smooth and warming as his own had been, and he swallowed a mouthful as he tried to match Hannibal’s masterful manner of speech.

“A chance death…” he started, “is unfortunate, but no one _means_ for it to happen. They do not make the decision to end someone, it just happens, either by accident or circumstance. It is not immoral action.”

“So a so-called ‘Act of God’ is permitted, but someone who wilfully makes the decision to end a life is immoral? What about someone who causes injury or demise through incompetence? A drunk driver has made the decision to drink and then get behind the wheel. Do they not hold responsibility for their actions? Should they not be held accountable for the wrong they have wrought?”

Will was silent, as he thought through Hannibal’s counter argument. 

“A drunk driver who wilfully ignores the risks is dangerous and reckless, but when he drives under the influence of alcohol he hopes that he does not hurt someone, but you actually set out to kill. The intention is different.”

“It is interesting you automatically assume our fictional drunk driver is male…”

Will stopped, midway in taking another drink of wine. Tension collected in his jaw, and he placed the glass back down, folding his arms tight across his chest.

“Samantha Grey was a drunk driver….”

Hannibal’s eyes lit up. “Indeed. Rather she was a drunk, who often drove under the influence of alcohol. You might say that by removing her before she hurt someone, I was saving a life.”

“No Hannibal, it is still murder.” Will’s eyes flicked to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, as it tightened into a smile, “ And I know the next point you are going to make; Gareth Jacob Hobbes. I killed him in the line of duty, stopping him killing more girls. But it was still murder, even if his death did stop him taking more lives.”

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed and fixed upon him, and Will felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. He coughed, and dropped his eyes to the floor.

“I do not like to talk about Hobbes, I still feel guilty over what had to be done. Can we please move on…?”

Hannibal’s eyes softened, and he blinked, slowly, as if clearing the image of Will splattered in blood from his retinas.

“I apologise, we were discussing cannibalism, not murder. Forgive me for moving off topic.”  
“Upon the subject, if death is to occur, surely then is it is better to utilise the resources that go along with the demise. It is not more wasteful, and much more criminal, to have such death tolls upon the fields of war and not make use of the nourishment?”

Will had by now gathered the game Hannibal was playing. Rather than actually talk about cannibalism, he was questioning morals and beliefs, in efforts to undermine Will’s sense of law and righteousness. He’d not be lured into another debate on morals, and instead chose to adopt Hannibal’s tactic of answering a question with another question. “If that is how you feel, why do you not raid the graveyards, rather than kill?”

“I told you, I prefer my meat in its prime…. Freshness is key.”

Will breathed, the smoke from the fire and the ruby fruit notes of the wine filling his senses. He found himself unable to pull up words to voice his opposition with tact and diplomacy, and threw up his hands. 

“Freshness….? Humans are not just a collection of meats that happens to walk around beforehand! What you do is wrong, and sick!”

The smile did not leave Hannibal’s face, but the warmth drained, and Will was almost certain that the lips remain curled as reflex, to hide the depth of the disappointment at his statement.

“A pity. I thought we were having civilised discourse.”

Will lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, “No, you were spinning a range of reasons that someone might eat human flesh. But none of them are what you actually believe. I asked you why _you_ ate meat… and you did not answer.”

Hannibal’s smile had returned, accompanied by reflected pride. It was eerily similar to the look Crawford would wear when Will had solved a case, and he wondered if it was intentional, or mere coincidence.

“I do not need to answer. I think you could easily fathom my motives. You have the gift for such things.”

Another breath, as he edged into dangerous territory. He’d been avoiding reading Hannibal too closely, for fear of contamination of his own mentality. He’d not put it past Hannibal to use his empathy against him; over long therapy sessions he’d described the difficulty he had in separating the minds he delved into, and the fears that he was losing the boundaries of himself.

Still, the idea of figuring out what made the Ripper tick had been ingrained into him, and he could not resist this chance to learn his true motivations. He lifted his glasses clear from his face, and looked at Hannibal. He braced, and looked, but he kept hold of his own identity, like a shield against Hannibal’s persona. He saw, but did not let himself slip too far into Hannibal’s mindset.

“You don’t kill to save lives for a start. In your view, lives are generally not worth saving, and you’d sooner there were less people in the world.”

Hannibal gave a nod of agreement.

“You enjoy the power that comes from besting people, firstly your victims, then the police hounding after you. Your strength and intelligence… you know that you exceed normal standards. You want to prove it though; taunt them the police with dramatic displays, because you know you have made yourself very hard to catch.”  
“You kill with precision, and hunt very specific people. You plan most attacks, but you are also prepared for the unexpected. You practice scenarios in your head, so you are ready for every eventuality.”  
“You are a hedonist, and you enjoy food. A meal well-made pleases you, pulling together ingredients to create something to savour and enjoy… You like to share, but only to show off your skill and have people compliment your efforts. Moreso if they are unaware of what they eat…”

Will remembered countless meals, where he had praised Hannibal’s talents in the kitchen, and the way that Hannibal would smile slightly and dip his head, modestly accepting the acclaim. Though it sickened him now, at the time Hannibal had easily made a cannibal out of him… and unaware of the horror upon his plate, he had enjoyed every mouthful.

He frowned, and turned his attention to the act of cannibalism.

“The eating of the meat is your final victory; proof that you have bested them and won. You do not honour your kills; you humiliate them. You use them to satisfy your appetite, and you enjoy very much that their deaths strengthen you to continue.”

Rather than revulsion, he felt the thrill of the triumph, and he knew he was feeling a shadow of Hannibal’s mind. The lure of the powerful personality called him, enticing him to dig a little deeper, and see much more than he was ready for. He jerked back in the seat, quickly fetching his glasses now that he’d seen what he’d been looking for and having no reason to remain. 

He had thought himself ready to see what drove Hannibal to murder and consume human flesh, but the sense of superiority was so detached from the mind of murderers he had visited in the past, he wondered if Hannibal even considered himself human. 

There was something of the megalomaniac in how he saw himself, a god-complex feeding off the accumulated evidence that he _was_ so much smarter and stronger than his fellow man. As a psychiatrist Hannibal had recognised such traits, and fully diagnosed and accepted them, rather than let them pull his mind apart. 

He was aware of sweat beaded across his brow, and that he was hanging onto the arms of the chair, fingertips pressed deep into the leather.

“Very good.”

Hannibal’s soft voice pulled him to the present, and he found the absurdity of being grounded by the killer so ridiculous he couldn’t help but laugh. It was either laugh, or dwell upon the monster’s mind, risking falling deeper into the tangled twists. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, not concerned, but curious.

He did not explain, determined that he might keep some secrets from his kidnapper. It felt strange, unfair, after Hannibal had invited Will to see what lurked behind the many masks. Will reminded himself that he did not owe Hannibal anything, that the Ripper had no claim to the workings of _his_ mind. 

He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry as he realised his next question.

“But you want to eat me… Do you hold me in such contempt that I deserve what you did to the others?”

Hannibal’s face shifted, and Will realised that Hannibal was horrified at the thought. Not of the notion of consuming of another human, if anything that particular taboo provided amusement- not horror, but the idea that Will thought his option so low curled his lip and narrowed his eyes. 

He drew deep breath, knuckled blanching under tightened grip. “I will not try to deny that the thought of eating you has crossed my mind, and I apologise if that has been a source of distress for you…”

Will laughed again, harsh, overly loud in the quietness of the evening. Hannibal raised a brow, and Will gave a shrug at the interruption.

“You think me insincere?”

“I think you are greatly mistaken to think that ‘distress’ properly covers the experience of living with a cannibalistic killer, who has just admitted that he has considered your potential as a meal.” Will could hear his dry humour in his voice, and wondered when cannibalism became something he could mock so easily.

With growing smile, Hannibal leaned forwards. “Yet you are not running for the door.”

He turned to look at the front door, unlocked as it had been since his arrival. “Wouldn’t do much good… Anyway, you’ve yet to actually try to take a bite of me…” His voice was suddenly strained with tension, and he found the humour he had attempted lacking.

“That is true.” Hannibal’s tone was carefully neutral, revealing more than if he had allowed his expression to seep through.

Teeth clenched, and determined to pull forth a direct answer, that he had _something_ to show for the decidedly unsettling turn the conversation had taken. “But you have avoided my question, _again_. Do you see me as a man, or as one of your hapless victims, fit only for food?”

“You are the most exceptional man I have ever met.”

Will did not doubt the honesty, so open it was almost painful, in Hannibal’s words. Will felt the last doubts for his safety fall away . A giddy thrill, at being held in such regard by a man who was the very essence of refined, reverberated through his bones. 

Of course, he noted that Hannibal’s statement did not eclipse the doctor’s own perceived grand status, but that came as no surprise.


	26. Chapter 26

Later, when the dishes had been done and the remains of Will’s stew left outside for Rover, the two men enjoyed refreshed glasses of wine by the fire.

Will noted that the mood was relaxed, and Hannibal seemed pleased with himself. That alone should have made him wary. That Hannibal had laid himself open for Will to see…. It revealed an element of trust that had not been present in Baltimore. 

He should have been more disgusted at Hannibal’s revealed motives, or frightened to learn that Hannibal killed for the sheer pleasure of it, but instead he thought that he actually understood Hannibal more. 

Immoral, certainly, but not amoral. He had standards, and a code, and though Will did not agree with Hannibal’s dim view of mankind, he had seen enough depravity and darkness to allow him to understand why the man might chose to shun the rest of his species. 

Well, not the entire species. For some reason, Hannibal had decided that Will was exempt from the blackened brush he painted everyone else with, going so far as to think of him as special. 

It was nice to be thought of so highly, but perhaps the opinion of a psychopath was not the best foundation for ones’ self-esteem. Still, it made a pleasant change.

Will, who had grown up awkward and odd, was not accustomed to such compliment. Even Jack, who held his empathic talents in high regard for their use, found Will’s quirks worrisome to the extent he assigned him his very own serial killer psychiatrist. If Will had been unimpressed at the need for a psychiatric evaluation then, he was even moreso upon finding the man supposed to keep him sane was in fact, the Ripper.

He chuckled, a defensive reflex, but preferable to lamenting the path his life had taken.

He turned to Hannibal. Hannibal turned, suddenly very interested in what Will had to say. They had not spoken since Hannibal had announced him ‘exceptional’; each used to the others’ habits that the evenings’ chores could be completed in peace and quiet. Hannibal had purposefully stayed silent, and Will got the impression that he was waiting for Will to choose when to speak and on what topic. 

Will did not think he had anything more to say, nor ask, of the man on the subject of cannibalism; he’d seen enough of the Ripper to last him for the night. He thought he might take the opening to put forward a topic that was somewhat more mundane, and not quite as likely to produce revelation.

“You must have sampled a wide range of food over the years… Is there anything you’ve wanted to try but not had the opportunity?”

He lifted his eyes, to see Hannibal staring at him, eyes reflecting the firelight and glowing with intensity. Suddenly uncomfortable in the warm leather chair, Will felt pinned by a predator’s eyes, and it was only when Hannibal broke into a smile (that was tinged with just a hint of cruelness) did he find he could draw breath again.

“Swan.” Hannibal replied, still smiling, though it had softened to something Will did not feel quite as intimidated by. 

Will laughed, partly to break the tension, partly because the notion of Hannibal feasting upon the birds of royalty suited him so very well.

The way Hannibal had stared at him however, lingered in his memory, and he carried the sense of unease into his dreams that night. 

He did not sleep well.


	27. Chapter 27

Some days later, and winter had started to shed its skin like a snake. 

The lake had begun to show signs of life again, as the insect population rejoiced in the warming days, and the fish sluggishly emerged from their winter dormancy, hungry and not as wary as they had once been. 

Armed with a fishing rod, Will and Hannibal had set out to bask in the first days of spring.

Downwind, reading in a folding chair, Hannibal sat surrounded by the glow of burning candles that promised to keep the tiny flying pests at bay. The smoke filled the air, sharp and chemical. 

Will, trying a new lure, that had at least roused attention from the lake’s occupants, was enjoying the freshness of the air, and the rare chance he had to fish; Hannibal’s tolerance for the local wildlife limited to short outings far between. He found walks more agreeable, whilst declaring that to remain stationary only seemed to give the bugs and pests opportunity to swarm them. Will did not think the scented smoke from the candles would much improve his chances at catching a fish, but as he had little luck so far, he was willing to allow Hannibal to try and tame the wild. 

Even with the candles scenting the air, the doctor still complained at the sheer numbers of the specks that danced in dizzying circles across the water’s surface, and alighted on the pages of his book. It was amusing that for all his preparation and planning, Hannibal seemed to be losing against the forest.

It made Will grin, even though his line was yet bereft of luck.

The fish had been in a mood to tease and taunt, tugging at his line, then releasing just as he readied to try and pull them closer. He had checked his hook twice over, fearing it warped or blunt, that it could not successfully snare a fish.

His line had drifted with the current, nearing a cluster of reeds. While the temptation would be to reel in and cast again, he decided that the fish were already too shy, and that he’d leave the bait to see if an undisturbed hook might tempt them.

Finally, the line went taunt, as a fish caught upon the hook and started to struggle. 

Hannibal looked up from his book, curious, as Will set about the slow process of dragging the fish to the shore that he could net it, without it breaking free. By the feel of the line, and the way Will had to fight to reel, he could tell this was a sizeable catch. It thrashed, and jumped, and gleamed in the light, ripples spreading across the surface of the water. He was clumsy as he reached for his net, his shoulders aching from the effort it had of pulling a fish from its element.

With a heave that he knew he would suffer for in the morning, he pulled the line upright, the fish swinging from the hook as a condemned man from a noose. He pulled the net up round it, and admired his catch, decent sized and still flapping wildly. It had the markings of a trout, he’d guess it to be a brook trout if pressed for more exact identification, but the shade and belly colour was unfamiliar to him.

He then lowered the net down, and started to try and work the hook out from its mouth. He caught his finger on sharp teeth as the fish gasped, and then again on the tip of the hook, sunk deep into the cheek. The lure was forsaken, in efforts of trying to remove the hook with the least damage to the fish.

“You are going to let it go?”

Will looked up, to see Hannibal on his feet, staring at him from across the water. “Yeah. Catch and release…. I rarely ever keep the fish I catch; never know what to do with ‘em.”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise. Will could feel eyes on him, keen as knives, as he managed to work the hook free.

“Would you consider allowing me to cook it for you? Something special to mark your first catch.”

The fish had started to flag, and flopped weakly whilst wrapped in the net. Will looked down at it and pondered Hannibal’s offer. It was a fine fish, and he had to admit that Hannibal would likely make a marvellous meal of it.

He had not eaten meat for months, but he felt that fish could hardly be mistaken for anything… human. 

He dropped his hand and picked up a preacher; yet un-used. The small wooden club felt smooth under his grip, and the weight balanced. 

With a quick flick of his wrist, he brought it down hard over the fish’s head. The fish dead and the preacher’s job done, he wiped it clean against the grass at his feet, before straightening, using the net to heft the fish into the air.

“There’s no cool box, so we should take it home now, and keep it as fresh as possible.” He said. Hannibal nodded, collecting his book and folding chair, and with more than a slight smile, extinguishing out the candles’ flames with deliberate pinches to the wick.


	28. Chapter 28

Will could gut and descale a fish, but was quietly thankful that Hannibal seemed determined that he alone should cook the fish. Having to deal with blood and entrails in the sink would have curdled his appetite, but he could not bring himself to leave Hannibal unsupervised in the kitchen. Instead, he leaned against one of the counters by the fridge, watching over the proceedings with interest, and ensuring that nothing untoward was added.

Hannibal did not seem bothered by his presence, perhaps understanding of Will’s wariness, perhaps enjoying the chance to show off his culinary skills for an alert audience.

The fish was cleaned, and blanched in boiling water in case of undesirable pathogens in the lake. Stuffed with couscous and capers, and a literal amount of butter and lemon zest, shredded dill and lastly a splash of vinegar, it sat fat and full, ready for the oven. 

As it roasted, Hannibal was set to work on the accompanying vegetables; stripping long ribbons of cucumber and curling them into neat little rosettes, making many more than were required so that he could select the best when it came to plating up. 

The smell was fragranced with the distractive tang of fish, though cleaner for its extreme freshness. It seemed to cling less to hair and clothes, and the slow accumulation of the layers of lemon and herbs made Will mouth water.

He did not have to wait long till Hannibal peered inside the oven and announced that the fish was done. 

Pale pink and gleaming, Hannibal neatly cut strips of the meat of the fish free from the fiddly bones, and set it upon plates, with the stuffing and cucumber rosettes. He sharply twisted a strip of lemon peel across the steam, adding the slightest hint of bitter zest to the dish, then took both plates to the dining table, leaving behind the unspoken request that Will sort out drinks.

It was early in the day, and regardless, Will did not think he’d manage to successfully match a wine to the fish, so he instead filled a jug with ice and bottled water. He was about to bring the jug through, when inspiration struck and he took some of the left-over cucumber and added them to the jug, and then repeated the trick he’d seen Hannibal use by spritzing the air over the jug with lemon zest.

His initiative was met with approval, and they sat down together to eat. 

Whether going for so long without meat, or that the catch was as fresh as possible, Will found the flaking pieces of fish delicious. The texture was silky, the flavour light yet satisfying. The fresh-water of the lake meant that salt did not dominate the palate, and the lemon and refreshment crispness of the cucumber saved the natural oils of the trout from being overwhelming. 

He had to admit (against his better judgement), that he missed Hannibal’s flair for cooking flesh.

“This is good.” He said quietly, eyes lowered to his plate as he quickly assembled another fork-load, that he would not have to try and continue the conversation.

“It is always a pleasure to cook for you.” 

Will’s response was to eat another mouthful, and make small noise of appreciation, all the while resisting looking up. He had no desire to remind himself of who the chef was, lest it spoil the plate in front of him.

He finished his meal before Hannibal, as usual. With nothing on his plate he could divert his attention to, Will raised his head. Hannibal was drinking water from the jug, a ribbon of cucumber unfurling elegantly in his glass. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. 

Cast across the doctor’s shirt and tie, were long jagged black shapes, like an array of fish-hooks, ready to pierce through clothes and skin. Slowly, as to not alarm or alert Hannibal, Will turned in his chair to see the black stag standing by the window, the sunlight behind it causing the sinister shadow show. 

He might have reacted, if not for Hannibal’s soft voice, obvious to what Will was seeing, ringing out across the table, drawing his attention away from the window.

“I am glad you enjoyed the meal. Shall I consider you a Pescetarian in future? A vegetarian that eats fish and seafood?”

The stag leaned forwards, hooked shapes sliding across Hannibal’s form, stretching along the table towards Will, where those black claws would surely catch him. Will looked, and was drawn into Hannibal’s eyes, framed in sharp shadows.

Will realised that as far as Hannibal was concerned, there was only one correct answer to his enquiry. 

Although he had worked within Will’s vegetarian limitations, he knew that the Dr would very much like for Will to shun what he perceived as a pointless restriction upon his diet. The addition to the fruits of the sea would be, in Dr Lecter’s option, a welcome step in the direction of Will eating meat again, something Hannibal had been subtly hinting at for months. He had made burgers from rich mushroom paste; commenting that they were ‘almost as good as the real thing’, and had lamented that a dash of chicken or beef stock would have bolstered many a soup and stew.

He recalled that his rejection of animal (and human) flesh was one thing that he knew to be Will Graham, and not part of the construct that Hannibal had created of him during his captivity. He was sure that some aspects of his personality had been affected by his time living with the cannibal; it would be foolish to assume that such a long period and close proximity had not reshaped him in some manner, and Hannibal was a master of manipulation, but his vegetarianism was something wholly _his_.

“No thank you.” he replied, managing a polite smile. 

The sharp spines of the shadowed antlers stopped dead, as if in shock at his courage. The darkness then lifted from Hannibal as the stag walked away from the window, head held low.

Hannibal too, looked surprised, and somewhat disappointed. He looked down at his plate, analysing and accessing the meal, and wondering how Will could decline after such a dish. With a fork, he shunted a caper to the side, as if blaming its pungent aromatics for Will’s rejection.

“The fish was perfect… really.” Will added, trying to sooth the blow he’d dealt to Hannibal’s pride. He did not mean to insult Hannibal’s skill and cooking in his refusal.

“Then I will confess, I am perplexed at your reasoning.”

Will sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers sliding under the frame of his glasses, tilting them skyward. “You know why it is difficult for me to eat meat. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending that it is anything other than the reminder that you fed me _people_ , Hannibal.”

Hannibal turned his chin to the side, a small gesture of acceptance that he had indeed abused the trust Will had placed in him. 

“I would not serve you such now; not when you have made your feelings so very clear.”

He dropped his hand, frustrated that Hannibal had missed the point.  
“You’ll remember I was heavily involved in the Ripper’s crime scenes… I know how many bits went… missing…”

He could see understanding dawn on Hannibal’s face, as his constant presence in the kitchen during cooking the fish suddenly snapped into sense. Hannibal had had no qualms with reducing a person to mincemeat, and then feeding said person to his assembled dinner guests. Such actions had been risky, but must have pleased Hannibal enough that it became his habit. 

Will could not count on Hannibal’s supposed reform, not when it would have been a simple matter to cook it in fat rendered from a victim, or wrap it in slices of thigh, and Will would have been none the wiser. 

“Oh.” The cannibal said. “I see….”

Will gave a nod, then; “Even if I could trust you, it does not matter. Whilst you may be more than able to exact a certain taste and style to the plate, you cannot control what memories might be invoked, especially when meat was involved. Even if the meat was… normal…. I would find certain… recollections… unsavoury to say the least.”

He did not look up, did not what to see the blunt admission of mistrust might invoke in his host. He hoped that his honesty, served with a liberal helping of flattery, might not be too bitter for Hannibal to stomach. 

Hannibal shifted in his chair, and Will made conscious effort not to tense. He kept his hands settled where they were, and looked up. 

Though his nostrils might have flared a little wider than usual, and his lips held a little tighter, Hannibal showed no signs that he had taken grievous insult. Unhappy, certainly, but directed inwards rather than out. If Will did not know better, he would say that he could see remorse in those dark eyes. Not for his countless victims, no, those he still firmly believed deserved their deaths, but there was at least something resembling regret that his culinary cunningness had shaken Will’s current confidence in the chef. 

“Thank you for understanding, and for being so accommodating. I enjoy your cooking, and I would not like to waste meals, not when you put such thought and effort into them.”

Hannibal smiled; placated. 

“It is nice to know that my work is appreciated.”


	29. Chapter 29

_‘It is nice to know that my work is appreciated.’_

For some reason, even after the dishes had been washed and stacked neatly away, Hannibal’s words rang in his ears. 

They echoed as he tried to read by the fire, and distracted him when he turned on the CD player to listen to some more commonly known classical compositions.

He was not surprised that Hannibal seemed so hurt when his skill in producing a meal was called into doubt. Hannibal did not suffer the sin of pride; he revelled in it. His dinner parties were extraordinary in their extravagant execution, and everything that the doctor touched bore his meticulous attention to detail in pursuit of perfection. 

People were drawn to him, hopeful that such refinement might reflect upon their lowly lives. That they might be able to claim some small piece of Hannibal’s glamour for themselves.

Jack was prime example of the spell Lecter cast; he had often mentioned his meals with the doctor (and Will grimly thought on how Hannibal must have enjoyed feeding the DI pieces of the latest victims), remarking on the quality of the feast. He spoke of chilled foie gras in the same way in which someone might namedrop a chance encounter with a famous face.

Himself as well, had been lured by the gleam of Hannibal’s personality; so calm and collected. Will had fancied that by sheer force of will, Hannibal might keep the chaos of his mind at bay. That visions of blood and corpses would not dare to intrude into Hannibal’s therapeutic space and home.

He could not have been more wrong; Hannibal had not sought to exorcise his demons, but rather bring them out into the light that he might study them. Prod and poke at the swelling darkness inside his skull to see what might happen next.

Not to mention that the nightmarish carcases that haunted him, were in fact product of his therapist’s macabre hobbies. 

_‘It is nice to know that my work is appreciated.’_

Will swore under his breath, as he finally caught Hannibal’s double meaning. Of course the corpses had also been carefully constructed, and dealt with the same way that Hannibal would compose together the ingredients on a plate. Creative, and more than a little playful, he laid out each atrocity exactly as he wanted, snuffing out that inconvenient flicker of life so that it did not disrupt his canvas.

A deep sigh filled him, as he recalled seeing Hannibal arrive early and watch his lectures; his work displayed across wide screen, focal point for a whole audience of rapt faces. It must have felt like bestowing honour directly upon his ego, crowning him with _recognition_. Skill and scorn acknowledged, as his work was appraised and analysed. There was no doubting his ability and dark talent, that there was no trace but that which he left to be found, that every cut and wound was inflicted exactly to his specifications.

An uncomfortable thought started to crystallise, sharp, and painful to try and grasp. Will forced himself to look inward, his fear of what he might see pale in comparison to the Ripper’s gruesome genius. 

Hannibal must have had practice, that he could so successfully flummox the police department, again and again. Whilst the Ripper was blamed for a handful of deaths, Hannibal could have been responsible for countless murders, as yet unattributed to the same killer. Hidden, he could have raked up a body count that rivalled the most prolific serial killers, all without risking detection. Without the Ripper’s excessive flare in displaying the bodies of his victims, the FBI would have been hard pressed to connect _any_ of the murders.

But the Ripper had only appeared when Hannibal had met Will.

With growing dread, Will rose from his seat. He found Hannibal in the hydroponic garden, pruning the new growths to fit his expectations.

“Hannibal, I have a question.”

“By all means, ask.” Hannibal lowered the secateurs, and stood out from the greenery.

“…back in Baltimore ,” he broke off to clear his throat, the warm humid air catching in his mouth, “…why did you display your kills the way you did? Surely you would have seen that you risked detection, so what made you decide to flaunt yourself?”

“I suspect you already know the answer, my dear Will.”

Will tried to breathe, but found the air too dense. His voice came out thin, with what was left within his lungs.

“Me. You killed those people and laid them out for my sake.”

Hannibal nodded, and did not need to say anything more to confirm Will’s fears. His shoulders slumped, and he dragged the heel of his hand across his left eye, cursing his ability to see into the motives of others, even when he’d have preferred to stay blind.

“Fuck…. I need air.” He swung away, and headed out the door. He heard Hannibal follow after him, as he made his way to the front door, leaning heavily against the railings of the porch, letting the cool air wash the thick feeling of the hydroponic garden from his chest.

“You are upset…” the psychiatrist observed, sounding surprised.

“No shit… “ Will’s tone was hoarse, “If it weren’t for me, you’d not have felt compelled to show off, and murder those people.”

“Ah, I see your misunderstanding. Let me reassure you that those people would have died regardless. Your presence was not a factor in their demise.” The answering voice to Will’s harsh swearing and self-flagellation was calm. 

Though he might have felt uneasy that such words could be used as a balm against the surge of guilt he felt, it _was_ a reassuring statement.

“Fuck…” he muttered, trying to compose the flurry of thoughts filling his head. Swearing did not seem to help, so he repeated himself, this time with more volume; “Fuck!”

Hannibal parted his lips, presumably to deliver an admonishment for his language, when Will held up a hand, warning against it.

“Don’t. Just don’t.” A dry chuckle punctuated his words, “Besides, we are not at the dinner table.” 

“That is true…”

“And apparently I am the reason that I had to explain to a new widow that not only was her husband dead and the FBI did not have a single lead on his killer, but also that he’d been eviscerated and had his guts strewn about the branches of a local tree! Oh, and to make matters worse, we couldn’t quite find all of him!” Will could feel the colour in his cheeks. He dropped his volume but his voice, although softer, held the same threatening quality of a growling dog, “I shall bloody well swear if I feel like it….”

Hannibal however, was not cowed by Will’s temper. If anything, he drew closer, basking in the fires of anger. “If I recall, you likened the pattern of the entrails to tinsel around a Christmas tree…”

Will folded his arms, trying to contain himself before he said or did something inadvisable. “I dunno Hannibal, _were_ you feeling festive?”

“Not particularly, but I found your comparison charming all the same.”

“Of course you did….” Will leaned forwards on the railings, his weight enough that the wood began to creak. Though he did not think that Hannibal would tolerate fixtures that would fail to support a man’s weight, he brought himself back to centre. Balance eluded him, and Will swayed on his feet.

He was aware of the anger cooling to despair, less dangerous but more likely to leave him vulnerable and overwhelmed. Hannibal too, must have seen the shift, and he slowly reached out a hand to Will’s shoulder, meaning to comfort.

Jerking back before contract could be made, Will snarled, rage flaring up from the burnt out embers; “Don’t touch me!” he took a step back, and clutched at the railing till his knuckles blanched bone white.

Hannibal lowered his hands, and took a step back of his own. His posture was textbook for de-escalation; palms out, standing at ease and his breaths slow. Not a threat, not a danger. Only his eyes betrayed him, intense, and entirely fixated on Will.

It was hard, being the focus of such scrutiny, and Will wondered what Hannibal saw in him; a gaunt, scruffy man, with mind full of murderers, or a messy knot-work of empathy and neurosis, ready to be unravelled.  
Or a wind-up toy, needing yet another twist of the turn-key that he would start to dance again.

Swallowing hard, he turned without another word, removing himself from that keen gaze.

Even once the door to his room was closed behind him, he could still feel Hannibal’s influence, creeping across his mentality and prying into the dark corners of his head, and he wondered how much longer he had before he would no longer fight to leave.

The thought stayed with him, through a restless night, till at last in the late morning he emerged from his room.

Hannibal was of course waiting.


	30. Chapter 30

He was by the bookshelf, a discoloured tome in his lap, his fingers stroking the edge of the cover absent mindedly. Perfect juxtaposition to Will’s roiling rage, that pushed the door hard enough to bang against the wall, and caused his footsteps to fall heavily. 

He made no attempt to calm himself, no effort to curb his anger to something less wild and unpredictable. He was a mess of twisted resentment and wrath, unbridled energy too long without grounding, and he wanted Hannibal to see the result that his kidnapping had invoked. That although contained, he was by no means tamed.

Hannibal dipped his head, and licked the tip of his finger, and turned the next page.

Had he been in better frame of mind, Will would have seen the action as obvious defence against his emotions; attempting to divert through lack of conflict. However, he had spent the night stoking his anger till it burned within him, and it would not be derailed. 

It had seemed preferable at the time to hold on to his anger, rather than be consumed by blame for the Ripper’s victims and the shocking way in which their bodies had been treated in order to garter his attention. His empathy was a sinkhole, and he could all too easily slip under, dragged by the guilt displaced by the killer himself, who showed no sign or remorse or regret.

That, and the hate he felt towards his capturer seemed more appropriate than the growing sense of companionship and camaraderie he had been feeling towards Hannibal. It spurred him, like the sharp points of metal into the flank of a horse, to buck Hannibal’s presence.

He slammed his hand against the arm of the leather chair Hannibal was sat in, the sting flashing pain across his palm.

“Hannibal! Look at me!”

“One moment Will, I wish to finish this chapter…” the tone was mildly scolding, but not shocked or scared. Silence fell between them, Hannibal apparently enthralled in his book, Will almost shaking as his anger was provided no outlet.

Non-engagement with the conflict, and then a period of quiet to allow the emotions to ebb and rationale to return was a sound method for conflict resolution, but Hannibal had not taken into account the sheer force of Will’s fury. 

“God damn it Hannibal! I’m not some inconvenience you can ignore when the mood takes you!”  
Behind his mask, Will could see Hannibal reassess the situation. With deliberate disinterest, he turned back to his book.

Will’s first instinct was to lunge at Hannibal, and slap some semblance of human feeling across his face. Only years of holding back violent impulses; of not allowing his fists to lash out like the echoes of murderous memory, stopped him.

He was very aware of Hannibal’s attempts to pull something vicious and wild from him, for whatever reason the killer fancied. He’d not be so stupid as to provoke Will when he was clearly so agitated without cause.

Which left Will torn as to what to do. Returning to his bedroom held little appeal, soaked in his resentment, and he would not allow himself to strike out at Hannibal, not when Hannibal so clearly invited physical aggression. 

He turned his head away, and hissed through his teeth as his arms fell to his sides, hands repeatedly clenching and releasing.

“This is ridiculous. You cannot keep me here like this...”

Hannibal did not look up from his book, “Current evidence would suggest that I can…”

Another prod, another nudge, to see what might happen next. Will was fed up of being the focal point of Hannibal’s experimentations.

Fuming, and making no effort to disguise the fact, Will went back into his room.

***

Will emerged not long after, and Hannibal readied himself for another bout with the Empath, Will seemingly determined to work himself up into frenzy. 

With the book as pretence (though in truth he had not read a word since Will had made his first appearance) Hannibal settled in what he hoped would be taken as mockingly relaxed pose. The sound of Will’s movement though, somehow unusual, drew his head upwards to see.

Dressed in layers (the compressed rustle the sound he had picked up on), and face into a tight rictus, Will obviously intended to venture outside. He did not stop to offer any parting words, nor see if Hannibal would attempt to stop him, he simply walked to the front door and left.

Hannibal considered following, either unseen or in view, but decided that a new escape effort was due, and that he would let it run its course. The forecast was poor, and Will had missed both dinner and breakfast, hardly optimal for his chances, and Hannibal wondered how long it would be safe to leave his guest out in the forests, before Will would require rescuing...


	31. Chapter 31

It was getting dark, and Will’s clothes were soaked through. He had felt the blister swell against the heel of one sodden foot, and there was a band of skin rubbed raw from the tracker. Bruises blossomed up and down his legs, from stumbling into roots and branches, and his right wrist was likely strained after his foot had dipped suddenly into a burrow of some-kind, and his arm had swung out to break his fall.

At the start, he had thought he would follow the sun to maintain a steady course, as it trailed across the sky, but the forest, and then the rain, quickly reduced his ability to see. Instead of wandering aimlessly, he used the road as a guide, keeping to the side that he would not be quite so easy to spot, should Hannibal bring the truck round. 

He had yet to see a single vehicle upon the road.

The raccoon, Rover, hopeful for food, had joined him as he walked away from the homestead, but lost interest when it became apparent that no treats would be forthcoming, and wandered off. He had called after her, but her loyalties did not extend to following blindly with no promise of reward.

His adrenaline at the threat of being recaptured rapidly ran out, and as the rain started to beat down, he found he was placing one foot after the other out of sheer stubbornness. He did not hold much stock in actually finding another person to help him, and he was dimly aware that he was probably at risk of exposure because of the weather and the chill he felt through his body. His made-shift outfit of thick shirts and two pairs of trousers were no substitute for a proper coat, and his boots were waterlogged and heavy.

He had laughed then, alone and in the rain, that he was more likely to be caused injury by his own actions, than by those of the cannibalistic murderer back at the house.

Knowing that even though he was tired, and wet, and had at some point started to shiver, that he could not stop else he really was like to cause himself harm helped. Though his feet dragged, and his wrist ached down to the bone, he continued, if only to try and keep his core warm.

The rain had stopped some time ago, but the damage was already done. The ground, the trees, and Will himself was sodden, the damp leeching his heat till his skin felt like that of a corpses’. The sky had started to darken, and every step brought with it the risk of unseen branches scratching against his face, or a hidden obstacle tangling his legs. Eventually, he reasoned that there was no point struggling through the forest when there was perfectly clear road not 20 yards away, and he clambered out of the ditch onto the flat gravel. 

He moved stiffly, exhaustion draining any grace he might have processed. His steps were uneven, the same stilted pace of a sleepwalker, and he wondered if he were to slip asleep that he might keep walking out of the habit formed over the last long hours. 

He tried not to be relieved when he saw his shadow stretch out in front of him, as headlights closed in from behind.

****

Glad that the tracker around his houseguest’s ankle seemed to function adequately (of course he had tested it beforehand, and continued to check that it still functioned every evening before bed, but it was never-the-less reassuring to observe it working at long range), Hannibal slowed the truck alongside the bedraggled FBI consultant. He was grateful that Will had been so easy to locate, and that he would not have to search through dark and damp forests for his estranged empathic guest.

He leaned across to open the door, showing the passenger seat to be covered with towels, and spoke to Will.

“Will… time to come home.”

Will stood, shivering, miserable and wet. He did not shake his head, but neither did he make any move towards Hannibal and the promise of shelter he offered. His glasses were veiled in raindrops, distorting his vision.

“You are cold and wet and tired, and no doubt hungry as well. Get in.”

Will seemed to be stuck, staring at Hannibal with eyes that did not seem to see, still save for the shake rattling his bones.

Hannibal sighed. “Your resistance has been duly noted. Now, get in before you chill further. I do not like the colour of your lips and I do not think dallying would be wise.”

Finally, as if granted permission to willingly go back to the house now that he had offered token refusal with the last of his strength, Will moved, and clambered inside. Not just his lips, but his whole face seemed pale, and his clothes so soaked that the mismatched patterns could be seen through the layers. He held one arm awkwardly, and tucked his fingers under his armpits for warmth, but Hannibal noted that even his shivering seemed weakened. It was not a reassuring sign, and he cursed himself for waiting so long.

He passed over a small towel that Will could dry his hair, and gestured to a Thermos sitting snugly in the passenger side cup holder.

“Warm milk. I fancy it might be appreciated.”

Unsurprisingly, Will avoided his eyes, but did take advantage of Hannibal’s foresight, and mop the worst of the rain from his forehead and fringe, and take up the Thermos, curling round the heat like it was a treasure.

Hannibal drove, wanting to see Will warmed as soon as possible. It other circumstances, he would have varied his speed to add to Will’s disorientation, but even if Will had shown signs of being able to process the figures on the dashboard, getting him inside and dried off took higher priority.

By the time they saw the house, illuminated by the headlights as they rounded the last corner, Will had only drunk a little of the milk, and he drooped forwards, exhausted. 

Hannibal did not try to get Will to shut his eyes as he entered in passcodes to the garage door; instead he made note to change the codes on the off-chance Will’s unfocused gaze had managed to catch the digits.

He guided Will on the stairs, the man swaying so much that he did not trust his balance, and opened his bedroom door for him.

“Go change out of those wet clothes, and dry yourself as much as possible. I shall fetch some additional blankets.”

Will stepped forwards, though he gave no other indication that he had heard Hannibal’s instruction. The doctor pledged to be swift.

Blankets were brought, and another glass of just-warmed milk sweetened with honey. He might have been tempted to offer hot tea, but he feared that Will had become so chilled that tea risked worsening his state. Milk, full of fat and energy and easily absorbed, was preferable, if he could convince Will to stay awake long enough to drink some.

When he returned to the bedroom, Will was still struggling with his wet clothes, the fabric pulled and tight, and his fingers numb and clumsy from the cold.

Hannibal did not wait to be asked for assistance; instead he quickly crossed the threshold, put down the glass and blankets and began to help Will undress.

It said much for Will’s state that he did not react to Hannibal being in his personal quarters for the first time, or even that the Chesapeake Ripper was currently divesting him of his clothes. 

With professional precision, he pulled the drenched upper garments off and tossed them to the floor where they landed with a heavy wet sound, like a slab of meat hitting a chopping block. Stained against both socks were several patches of blood. He tried not to worry that Will’s chest was white as he wrapped a blanket across shivering shoulders, and unfastened the buttons and zip of his trousers, allowing Will to push off the trousers himself.

Will had to sit upon the bed to successfully get free of the trousers, so Hannibal pulled back the duvet to encourage Will to get straight into bed once he was undressed, where he might start to warm up.

Cold, and no doubt too tired to protest, Will allowed Hannibal to bring the duvet round him, and add an extra layer of blankets to better trap the heat. 

“Drink the milk if you can, it will restore your depleted energy reserves.”

Hannibal nodded that he had done well: Will was wrapped up and out of the cold and rain, and though no doubt the consultant would have much to say the next day, for now he was safely back where he ought to be.

“’s’not drugged, is it?” A slight slur to his words, and Hannibal halted as he headed out the door, turning to review the situation.

“No, just warm milk and honey.”

Will made an attempt to reach for the glass, and knocked it over. His reaction to the flood of white over the counter was delayed, and Hannibal stooped to catch the drips with a towel, all the while watching Will. Even the jerk of his hand back seemed sluggish, and Hannibal tsked that he did not think Will would warm up fast enough on his own. 

“You are dangerously cold.” He said softly, and started to move towards the bed. “I will lay beside you to share body heat. It will help you warm up again.”

Even though the fog of exhaustion, and what Hannibal now guessed was a moderate case of hypothermia, Will’s eyes grew wide. “What..? No! Get away!”

“Calm yourself. There will be blankets between us. It is for your own good that you warm up again as quickly as possible.”

He had to push Will’s arm out of the way that he could lay down, and he settled, despite Will’s weak thrashing under him. 

“I don’t… don’t want this…” Will’s voice was ragged, breathless from his excursion.

Hannibal gave a sad smile, “Your resistance has been duly noted.” 

In all honesty, this was not what he wished either; Will’s fear and frantic attempts to buck him from the bed so far from what he had been trying to cultivate between them. This was a considerable setback, but for sake of Will’s health they would both have to tolerate the intrusion into each other’s personal space.

Will’s head was turned away, but his huffed half panicked, half furious breaths filled the room. The weight against him would not be moved, and he held himself rigid and tense, till he finally succumbed to exhaustion and his body slumped in sleep.

Beside him, Hannibal drew his legs closer now that Will would not fight the proximity, that Will might actually draw benefit from his body heat. 

The position was awkward, and Hannibal would have been far more comfortable if he had draped an arm over the sleeping man, but he did not dare to risk it. He did however allow himself to lean in, and inhale the scent surrounding him.

Pine and mud from his long walk outside dominated the bouquet, with damp curls still wet from the rain. The sharp smell of fear lingered, not unfamiliar but unpleasant to have Will as the source. His breath was stale, with an edge of foetid ketosis, as Will’s body started to burn itself up when there had been no food available and having not having eaten since the day before.

Underneath was sweat, significant but yet to sour and become unbearable. Even though not traditionally alluring, indeed, it was terribly mundane, Hannibal found himself fascinated by the fragrance of the man, the day’s events inscribed upon his odour.

Lastly, hidden under the imposed consequences of travel and toil, was the essence of Will. Subtle, and hard to pin down suitable comparison; like early morning mists, or the shift in the wind. 

Hannibal found himself waxing poetic when he tried to capture the exact perfume of Will, to translate the smell into words he could keep and treasure, to tide him when Will would not allow him near enough to indulge his keen nose.

It was almost embarrassing.

However, like its source, the scent defied Hannibal’s attempts at analysis, rendering every analogy inadequate.

Harder then, to commit sense to memory, but Hannibal had ample time. All night, should he wish. Will was still beside him, and in a deep sleep. He would likely not rouse, even if Hannibal was to reach and caress his cheek.

He could even draw back the blankets, and divest himself of his shirt, and hold Will, skin to skin. It would certainly aid in bringing Will’s temperature up, and the thought of pulling the empath into his embrace, close enough to count heartbeats, was heady and enticing.

Will would never know….

Even with his unusual talents in empathy and detective work, Hannibal had plenty of practice in keeping his secrets from those ever-so interesting flashes of insight. Not to mention that even if Will did find out, he still had in his reserves the rather convenient excuse that he was actually doing it for Will’s own good, to stave off the chill.

Hannibal smiled, and looked across the sleeping form, unaware and unguarded. 

He would not take advantage of the situation, no matter how tempting. It would be the height of rudeness.

Even though he had been eagerly awaiting his chance to touch Will, to hold and cherish him, he would not allow impatience to make a liar out of him. The blankets would stay in place, and he would do not more than help raise Will’s body heat by laying beside him. 

He consoled himself by listening to Will’s steady breaths, undisturbed and peaceful. 

Though the bed was soft, and his bed partner now showing signs that he was out of danger; the shivering had slowed, and he no longer felt like it was sharing the bed with a piece of marble, Hannibal stayed awake and alert, not wishing to let sleep steal the experience from him. 

He was content, Will’s aroma filling his nose. He even stopped trying to put a name it, capture and label its qualities, instead just breathed deep, and let it saturate his senses, sweeter than any symphony.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, Will finds his memories hazy and confused. He worries that he has been taken advantage of, and there is panicked thoughts of rape. Please read with caution if you find such themes troubling or triggering. A recap can be supplied if you ask for it in the comments immediately following the chapter.   
>  Many thanks for your continued readership – Doxx

Will woke, and immediately wished he hadn't. His body ached down to the bone, and a fierce headache tightened across his temples. 

He was alone, and swathed in so many blankets that his palms were damp with sweat. In trying to kick himself free, his legs sang out in agony, muscles overworked the day before now tender and weak. 

Slower, working within the limits of what his strained body would allow, he folded the duvets and blankets down. His right arm, swollen at the wrist and coloured an impressive collection of mottled purple and yellow, required extra care to be taken. 

His voice rasped noisily from a dry throat, and his lungs felt like a weight was hung from his chest, making every breath a labour.

From the muddle of his memories, he recalled a different weight that had pressed against him. Hannibal. The man had come into his room, and lain on the bed. The sequence was hazy, and he recalled panic, and saying no, and _that Hannibal had not listened_

His breath quickened, wheezing, fast approaching hyperventilation, as he realised that despite his best efforts he had fallen asleep, and laid himself at the mercy of the Ripper.

Pulling himself from the blankets, he cast his eye over his body. Bruises littered his limbs, and though he remembered receiving their many marks during his ill-fated outing, he could not tell if others had been added. Some of the bruises correlated loosely to the placement of he’d seen in victims of sex attacks, and he could not deny that Hannibal had clearly stated his desire for an intimate relationship. Short smudges on his arms could have been caused by the branches of the pines, or fingers pressing in, holding him down.

The ache in his body was constant, and not localised, which was vaguely reassuring, but there was traces of something dark under his fingernails, and he could not tell if it was mud from the forest, or blood.

Shuddering, and very much dreading what he might find, he checked his boxers. Relief flooded through him, as he discovered them painfully pungent, not having been changed for well over a day. There would have been signs of tearing of the fabric, or of some attempt of cleaning should Hannibal had interfered, and Will had never been more grateful that his kidnapper apparently was also a gentleman.

He let himself fall back into the bed, the effort of investigating himself adding to his already exhausted state. 

Too tired to move, but too sore to go back sleep, Will struggled semi-upright, and propped himself up on the pillows. From his vantage point, he saw that two bottles of water had been left for him on the counter. He stretched across with his left hand, and reached for the closest one, jamming it under his right armpit to get the lid loose, avoiding using his right hand at all. 

He drank greedily, his throat parched and the liquid cool and fresh. Even the bottle, chilled, felt good against his injured wrist. He took the second bottle, and resisted the urge to break it open and chug down the contents, allowing the first drink to settle first. 

He dipped his head, shaking it at himself, and added ‘dehydration’ to his current catalogue of aliments.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and from the other side he could hear approaching footsteps. 

Hannibal nudged the door open, and stood in the doorway, holding a tray. Dressed in waistcoat and shoes, he made Will very conscientious of his bare chest, and he started to pull one of the covers up to hide himself from those intense eyes. Hannibal tipped his head on seeing Will awake, and with the tip of his polished shoe, knocked against the door frame.

Will, still struggling to pull the covers up with one hand, snorted.

"You did not require invitation last night." he rasped.

“An exceptional circumstance, and one I would rather not repeat any time soon. How are you feeling this morning?” Hannibal, whether on purpose or the emotion slipping past his mask, did not hide the concern in his voice. 

By Hannibal's intention or not, Will felt himself relax. Things had not shifted so drastically that Hannibal would come and go from Will's room as he pleased, that Will still had some control over this, his _space_. 

Using his good arm, he grasped the covers to his chest, sitting up a little in the bed.   
“Stiff, sore, and sick as a dog.” 

“That is to be expected. Will you allow me to come in and deliver some breakfast, and perhaps check your temperature?”

“Are you going to hover in the doorway till I say yes?”

Hannibal, tray in hand and held steady, gave a slight inclination of his head.

“I would prefer to set my mind at ease that you are out of danger.” 

Not just concern, but an edge of fear, of genuine anxiety that Will health was less than optimal.

Will was not used to people actually being sincere about their voiced worries about his well-being; physical or mental. Most times, they’d make a comment that he ought to look after himself better, then in the next breath tell him that he had more work to do.

With a slow nod, he allowed Hannibal entry.

The tray was set down by the bedside, and had an array of food set out in small portions. Toast and jam, and small cup of coffee, orange juice, a glass of milk, another two bottles of water, what looked like plain porridge sitting solidly in a bowl, a single poached egg with black pepper, and some of the butter biscuits Hannibal knew he was partial to. 

He might have been alarmed that the elaborate setup was some sort of apology for trespasses upon his person, if he did not know Hannibal so well that without being able to tell what Will would be able to stomach, the doctor had decided to provide a sample of everything. 

“...Didn't have to...” he muttered, embarrassed that Hannibal would go to such effort when it had been his own stupidity that had placed him in such poorly state.

“I thought that breakfast would be appreciated; you must be starved.” It was a delicate phrase, deliberately making no mention to the previous night's events.

With a grunt of agreement, both to breakfast _and_ not bringing up his miserable misadventures, Will lifted the coffee mug up with his left hand.

Hannibal allowed him a first sip in peace, before he lowered his eyes to scrutinise the right wrist, held tight against his chest. 

“Ah. That ought to be checked to ensure there is no fracture or break.”

“Yeah... I suppose so.” Will stuck out his hand for Hannibal to observe, petulant.

“I should go fetch supplies first. Enjoy your coffee, and I shall be back very shortly.”

Will would have protested the notion of being tended to by a serial killer, but the cold and exertion from the night before held grip over his body still, and he found he had no energy to disagree with Hannibal's 'Doctor's orders'.

The coffee helped, made him like less like an invalid and more like himself, though he noted that he had only been permitted half a cup, probably so that it did not interfere with his sleep and recovery. He would have begrudged the reduced volume, had his left hand had been more stable. As it stood, with less coffee, he found that the risk of spillage was minimised, despite his left hand having less control over the mug.

The consideration irked him, as if it was done with the intent of cultivating guilt within him.

With a large, well-stocked first-aid kit and an air of professionalism, Hannibal seemed unperturbed by Will's sour glare as he returned, waiting again at the door frame till Will waved him inside.

“Temperature first.” he said softly, and before calmly placing the back of his hand against Will's forehead.

He willed himself to stay still, as Hannibal tipped his head in thought. “A little clammy, but otherwise fine. I would however suggest a restful day; your body will need time to recuperate.”

“And here was me planning on running laps round the house...”

Even though he meant the comment entirely in jest given the bloody mess of his feet, Hannibal gave him a pointed look that made him make note not to joke when Hannibal was acting as a doctor. It seemed to drain the humour from him, clashing against Will's habit of making light when he was nervous.

“Now the wrist, if you would be so kind.”

Will held out his arm again, and Hannibal clasped his hand and elbow in his own hands, cool fingers holding the wrist in place without putting undue pressure upon the joint. He tilted Will's arm back and forth, and very slowly brought his fingers up, testing the range of movement.

“Let me know if there is pain.”

As the fingers were stretched backwards, Will winced, making a brief noise of discomfort. He was surprised at the care Hannibal took to quickly bring the wrist back to a neutral position, and not push past the border of pain.

“A sprain, and not a fracture thankfully.”

“What would you have done if I had broken it?” Will asked, suddenly curious. 

He wondered if he would be able to break a limb, if it would force Hannibal to deliver him to a hospital where he'd be able to alert the outside world to his situation.

“Bound it, and hoped that the bone did not set awkwardly. Monitor for signs of infection, septicaemia and other complications. I would supply painkillers from my supplies, but I regret to inform you that they would likely not be very efficient at reducing your discomfort.” Hannibal's tone was one of a doctor reciting from a textbook, a practised response to a thought that had already crossed the other's mind.

Will felt a little colder, that Hannibal had no plans to ever let him leave, no matter how dire the situation.

“So I'd best not break anything, huh...?” His voice was flat, disheartened that another possible escape route had been closed off.

“I would prefer you remain in one piece.” Hannibal offered, as he selected a length of tubular support from the first aid kit. “To that end, will you permit me bind your wrist, to help reduce the swelling and prevent further damage?”

Will shrugged, a bruised wrist having little impact on his imprisonment.

His fingers stretched wide to allow the support to slide over Will's wrist with as little pulling as possible, mindful of the tenderness, Hannibal used scissors to clip a small circle to make room for Will's thumb. The resulting binding was snug, but not uncomfortable. Despite his murderous tendencies, Hannibal was a very good doctor.

The scissors were set back in their place, then Hannibal looked at Will expectantly.

Will scowled.

“...I am not going to thank you for bringing me back.”

The sigh was barely audible, but Will felt the disappointment slam against him like a physical force. He rallied against it, refusing to be grateful for Hannibal's endeavours towards his well-being. He'd not let himself feel guilt for trying to escape his kidnapper, even though his attempt was less than successful.

He found that he had chilled, and even with the blankets pulled about himself, he felt a shivery sensation spread across his skin. It boded poorly that he had not (as he had hoped) avoided catching a cold from his outing. 

It seemed like salt in the wound, that his health would be penalised for not staying willing prisoner of the Chesapeake Ripper. Irritation grumbled in his throat.

“I don't understand why you would be bothering with all this,” He gestured to the bandage, and the breakfast, “when it was my own stupid fault for charging out into the rain in the first place.”

“I merely hope to hasten your recovery, my dear Will.”

“Recovery that would not be necessary, if I had not been so stubborn, and headed back when I saw that the weather had turned against me.”

“While the repercussions were perhaps not what you intended, I do not think it was a act of stupidity. Instead I consider that there is a great deal of courageousness required to set out into the unknown in accordance to your ideals and hold to them. You are brave, and determined, and I admire that aspect of you.”

Folded arms and furrowed brow, with teeth clenched tight within his jaw, and it was clear that Will was not in the mood for compliments.

“I would prefer you left me alone; I don't want your admiration, or your sympathy.” 

“You mistake sympathy for compassion.”

“Well you can take your compassion and get the hell out of my room.” Will hissed.

“As you wish.” and Hannibal gathered up the first aid kit, and walked from the bedroom, closing the door behind him but not locking it. He did not seem angry, rather his steps had a quiet patience to them, as if he would walk miles more to comply with Will's wishes. 

Will bristled in his bed, his wrist carefully bound and bountiful breakfast laid out beside him. He selected out one of the biscuits, biting into it with enough force that his teeth clicked. The taste was soured by bitter resentment that Hannibal was being so damned reasonable.

It made it hard to hate him properly.


	33. Chapter 33

He had run through the box of tissues that had been provided with lunch, which had been a carrot soup Will could hardly taste through his blocked nose and raw throat. Crumbled tissues lay scattered around the bed which could have benefited from a few hours to air, the sheets having been subjected to bouts of shivering, and then sweating, then back to shivering again. 

Will felt miserable, and his head seemed to have slowed as his body made abundantly clear that day-long excursions, in the rain, without food and water, were a truly terrible idea.

He had already emptied the small bottle of aspirin that had accompanied the tissues, with its merger yield of just six tablets. Enough that he could medicate as needed, but not enough to risk overdose. However, the tablets seemed to be mostly ineffective in taking the edge off his discomfort, and he ached from head to blistered foot.

He'd slept most the morning and afternoon, but now even though he still felt tired, sleep refused to slip across his mind and grant him reprieve of his continual aches and pains, and a throat that felt like he'd been gargling glass.

He decided that a shower, and a change of scenery might perk up his spirits. It could hardly be any worse than laying in bed, feeling sorry for himself.

The water, clean and hot, was blissful. It cleared some of the fog from his head, allowing him to process his thoughts beyond what hurt the most at any given moment.

It occurred to him that he should have probably removed the tubular support before his shower, but by the time he'd thought on his strained wrist, it was already soaked through. 

He'd was not so dense as to leave a piece of wet material on his skin (the damage caused by the wet tracking device had shown too clearly that damp skin was softer, and more prone to rubbing and damage), and so peeled the stretchy fabric from his arm. The colour of the skin underneath was vivid, but the swelling had gone down. With an experimental flex of his fingers, he found movement still sparked pain, and so was forced to dry himself off and dress one handed.

It took longer with his left hand, and by the time he'd an extra shirt, he felt like crawling back under the blankets. He had left the socks in the drawer, his feet blistered and bloody, and unlikely to take kindly to cotton confinement.

It was only when he heard the distinctive crack and crackle of a lit fireplace, that he decided to venture from his bedroom, bringing with him the last of the tissues should his nose continue to run.

He sat heavily in the chair in front of the fire, and wondered if he dared call Hannibal to make a request for a cup of coffee. 

He had been pre-empted, and though it was not coffee upon the tray, the teapot and plate of biscuits were a welcome sight.

Hannibal was about to settle in the chair beside Will when he saw the exposed wrist. His lips tightened, and set into a frown.

“Was the support bandage too uncomfortable?” Though phrased as a question, Hannibal's tone suggested that he knew perfectly well that the support had been precisely placed that it would not place too much pressure on tender bones. That it was now absent suggested that Will had taken it off to spite him.

“No, no.” Will said, a little quicker than he would have liked, “It was fine, but it got wet in the shower.” he explained. 

The change in the his stance was minuet, hardly more a slight shift of his feet as he exhaled softly, but Will instantly felt more at ease. Hannibal could fill a room with his presence with a single stern look, and though Will no longer feared for his life on regular basis, it still set his teeth on edge when Hannibal was displeased. 

He preferred his kidnapper content.

“Then rest by the fire, and I can apply a new bandage in a little while, once the skin has had time to breathe." He looked down at Will's bare feet, "I should like to dress the abraded skin on your feet as well, if you will permit?"

Will gave a nod, knowing that Hannibal would insist on performing the task himself, even though Will was sure he could manage a reasonable effort on his own. However, the idea of having to bend to reach his feet was not an appealing one, and so he decided to let Hannibal play doctor. 

The fire was warm, and the tea pleasantly soothing. Hannibal drank from his own cup, quiet and contemplative. When he rose to presumably fetch through the first aid kit, Will made an half-formed sound, trying to get his attention.

“... the aspirin bottle. It's empty...” He still found it hard to ask anything of the Ripper, and his voice faded into a mumble.

“Already? It is barely past lunch...” Hannibal clicked his teeth, and Will was reminded of his therapy sessions, when the conversation between them was often marked by suggestions that he limit his intake of painkillers. Will had not listened then, and had no intention taking the serial killer's advice now. 

Hannibal begrudgingly refrained from further comment. “Did the medicine at least give some relief?”

“Not much, no.”

“Then I shall see if I do not have some ibuprofen as well. Perhaps it will prove more effective.”

“Thanks.”

The word tripped off his tongue before he could think to stop himself, and to Hannibal’s credit, he did not turn to make mark of the occasion. 

As he was left alone while Hannibal walked to his room, to retrieve the necessary supplies, Will exhaled. It seemed he was already too full of self pity to feel bad about his slip, and he decided that he was bruised enough on the outside without beating himself internally up over a simple word of gratitude. 

Mindful of Hannibal's sensibilities, he took the opportunity to blow his nose while alone, and tossed the used tissue into the fire, which consumed it hungrily.

He did not have to wait long before he heard Hannibal purposefully sounding out his return, shoes tapping against the hardwood floor, steady as a metronome.

In a graceful but uncharacteristic movement, Hannibal folded himself neatly to the floor, kneeling by Will's side. He could have reached out to touch the fine strands of hair, reflecting cool silver even with the light from the flames. 

Will swallowed uncomfortably.

Instead of looking up and meeting his eyes, which would have had Will leaping up from the seat ruined feet be damned, Hannibal dipped his head. After a brief assessment of the collection of blisters and raw skin, he pulled out a roll of bandage and several antiseptic swabs.

He did not put gloves on, as Will might have expected, but carefully cupped the heel and rested the foot on his thigh as he worked. He did not stoop over the task, but kept his attention focused downwards as he started to clean the wounds, working the pieces of mud and grit free from where they had been rubbed into the skin.

“This may sting.” he warned, as he moved on the the more damaged areas.

In some ways, Will relished the sharp bite of the antiseptic wipes; they prevented him getting too comfortable under Hannibal's administrations.

“You'll not want to wear shoes while your feet heal...” Hannibal said, his tone conversational.

Will frowned, and pulled his foot put from Hannibal's grasp, causing the man to look up from the floor.

“Is that your way of telling me I have forsaken my going outside privileges?”

Hannibal let his hands fall into his lap as he shook his head, something similar to a smile flitting across his lips.

“Though I advice against it, I will not stop you if you want fresh air, or a short walk.”

Wary, surprised that there seemed to be no loss of freedoms despite his continual escape attempts, Will let his foot be scooped back up and wrapped in bandages. The tracker was shifted, so that a layer between the rough hard-wearing fabric of the device and the skin could be put in place.

“Wear a second pair of socks, if you are set upon the notion of going out. It will reduce the rubbing.”

With a nod he hoped would convey appreciation both for the bandages, and that he would not be prevented from going outside, Will reached for the tissues, his nose threatening to drip if ignored for much longer. 

The sound of Will blowing his nose nosily, followed by dry gasps for breath afterwards did not seem to distract Hannibal from his task, and he finished up wrapping the last of the torn skin of his foot. Folded bandages acting to cushion the points which would have to bear weight when standing, and Will struggled to remember a time when anyone had made such an effort on his behalf. 

As a child, Will had been awkward both socially and physically. Fingers that had caught against fishing hooks, or burnt skin from touching an overheated engine had been either smeared with salvon, else hidden away under a simple plaster. His father was not a medical man, and the affection he managed to express was ungainly, and he and Will had lived together in a stable but subdued household. Physical aliments were treated mostly with painkillers, and emotional turmoil was not addressed. Will had learnt that he would gain more sympathy if he reported a headache, rather than sense of dread or panic when he looked other people in the eye. 

As he had grown, he found that through lack of practice, the language to describe his thoughts and feelings had shrivelled, leaving behind a prickly defensive ring around his mind. The long line of psychiatrists he been sent to found this frustrating, and not one of them had persevered. 

It was deeply troubling that the only professional that had successfully engaged Will through patience and understanding of his mindset, was the Chesapeake Ripper.

However, as Hannibal had come to know him down to his darkest thoughts, he too had learnt the cannibal's ways. The path his thoughts were taking towards fondness and gratitude seemed a carefully laid out trap, orchestrated by the man kneeling at his feet. Was the position intentionally subservient, to negate suspicion, or was it merely to avoid undue strain upon the spine?

His feet (now to his mind resembling the barbaric practice of foot binding) were laid down on the ground, and Hannibal moved to tend to his wrist. Will pulled it back to his chest, and shook his head, as if trying to get Hannibal's hooks from his mind.

“I can do it, if you'll leave the kit out.” he forced a brittle smile, “You've done more than enough.” 

He'd meant the words without menace, but between his strained smile and raw throat, it came out snide. 

The perfect mask faltered, only for a moment, before Hannibal composed himself. Under the calm façade Will swore he saw something dark snarl.

“It is no trouble. Allow me.” slowly, purposefully, Hannibal uncurled his hand and held it out for the injured limb.

Clutching his wrist to his chest, he made no move to surrender it. The silence grew between them, a crescendo of tension.

Will broke it, by lifting his left hand and blowing his nose again, a ghastly snorting noise hardly muffled by the tissue.

Hannibal chuckled softly, and the tension dissipated as quickly as it had amassed. Will flushed, embarrassed but also greatly relieved.

“Sorry...” he mumbled, as he dabbed at his face, feeling decidedly disgusting.

With the same care and precision, the leftover bandages were packed back into place. “No need to apologise. It is a perfectly natural phenomenon following exposure to the cold.” 

“Perfectly horrible you mean... I feel like death warmed over, and probably look even worse.”

If he had not been looking to ensure that Hannibal planned to leave out the support grip for his wrist, Will would have missed the way long fingers stilled part-way through replacing the scissors. 

“Even sniffling and sore, you look as handsome as ever.”

Will's shoulders hunched, instinctively bracing against the compliment. His brows furrowed, and he felt his lips drag downwards into a scowl.

“Don't say such things...” he muttered, moody and in no frame of mind to process Hannibal's statement of attraction. He certainly did not feel attractive, but rather awkward and uncomfortable.

With head held high and eye contact firm and sincere; “I apologise.” 

Will shrugged.

With the support laid out on the table beside the teapot, Hannibal rose from the ground. He took up a cup, and sat down in the second leather armchair, apparently set on observing to ensure that Will did an adequate job of securing his own wrist. 

Will dipped his head to the task, and tried not to wince as he pulled the support over his thumb, the bruises tender and delicate. The resulting support was not as snug, and without the thumb hole, his ability to grip was reduced as his thumb was pressed into his palm, but it would hold till the swelling went down and he could start to use his right hand again.

Triumphant, he kicked shut the lid of the first aid kit, and rewarded himself with a second cup of tea, and several biscuits. 

In order to dunk the biscuits (a habit he knew Hannibal found irksome, which was part of the reason he continued the practice) without the use of both hands, he had to balance the cup and saucer on his lap, and use his off hand to dip the biscuits into the tea.

It was not an elegant manoeuvre; his energy drained and fine motor skills suffering as a result, but the saucer saved him from spilling hot tea onto his lap.

Hannibal seemed to be pointedly ignoring him.

Biscuits successfully dunked and eaten, their hot soggy mass comfortably settling into his stomach, Will lifted his tea. He could not really taste anything through his blocked nose, but the heat was pleasant, and he knew that even though he'd not be able to fully appreciate the beverage, Hannibal would still have only brewed the finest leaves, with thick cream-topped milk. 

There was something strangely pleasing in the safe knowledge that the tea would be of quality, something he could count upon.

Something he could trust.

When it came to the man behind the tea (and every other sip or bite that passed his lips) however, he found that past betrayal prevented him from placing his trust again into those blood-soaked hands. Oh, he held firm to the belief that Hannibal would stick to his word, and not harm him unless absolutely necessary, but he had started to dread conversations with the man, feeling like he was bleeding out his integrity with every exchange. That somehow, Hannibal was keeping score in accordance to secret rules, and that Will was perpetually losing. 

As if Hannibal could read his thoughts (and there were times when Will was not altogether convinced that the doctor did not harbour latent physic abilities), he started to speak, his words low and sounding rehearsed “I feel, that I owe you a further apology. It was remiss of me not to have come and fetched you from the cold and wet weather sooner.”

“No.” Will replied, setting down the cup by his side that he was not tempted to throw it.  
He'd have held himself in better check, if he was not fairly certain that wrath had not been Hannibal's intend.

“No. You don't get to take the blame for me being a stupid asshole. There is no apology needed.” Anger, welling within in a surge that was becoming distressingly familiar, sharpened his words, all but hissing the word 'asshole'. 

At first he thought that Hannibal might pick out the self-inflicted insult and attempt to rebuke it, but after a long moment of contemplation, he let Will's words lay, without trying to correct a single one. 

“Very well. We shall put it behind us, and think no more of it.”

Will gave a small nod, and relaxed back into the leather. What passed for peace in the household descended, and the fire burned warm and merry.

He gathered up his tea cup, then thought better of it, the saturated crumbs at the bottom reminiscent of silt. 

He frowned into his cup, foggy thoughts finally catching up with the conversation. Hannibal had said that they would _think_ no more of the matter, not merely not speak of it, but act as if the memory of the event itself was banished.

He might have been tempted. The whole sorry situation not really one he wished reminded of, but then he recalled what had prompted his grand walkout in the first place: Hannibal.

Will would not so easily forgive and forget his deliberate goading and manipulation, playing upon his rage like the stings of a puppet.

“Would you like a fresh cup?” Hannibal's soft tones pulled his attention, and he pulled up from the teacup.

He had to bite down on his response, emotions running rampant through his thoughts. He forced himself to stay calm, and shook his head.

“No... I think I might head back to bed for a bit.”

“As you like. I'll knock when dinner is served.”

Will got up from the chair, aches flaring but failing to derail his purpose in getting away from Hannibal before he resorted to shouting or sulking again. 

No, he would withdraw to his room, that he might be able to plot a better course of action than letting his feelings (and Hannibal) dictate his every move.


	34. Chapter 34

He decided that he would act before dinner; Hannibal's exacting control at the dinner-table granting him power over and above his unchallenged reign over the household.

There was no venue Will could think of that would give _him_ an edge, as even his bedroom was a glorified cage, with Hannibal holding the passcode keys.

So he picked his moment instead, selecting a time that suited rather than location. He waited till Hannibal had finished in the kitchen, and come through to read by the fireplace. With book in his hands, he looked up as Will approached, curious, intrigued. He folded the book and set it aside.

It was reminiscent of the night of his walk-out, expect this time Will was composed, and felt that his emotions were under his direction. He straightened his shoulders, and stood at a slight angle, that Hannibal would have to twist in his seat to face him.

“No more mind games.” he said, quiet, but determined.

A frown; “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. No more messing about with my psyche.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

Will folded his arms, at almost the exact same moment Hannibal uncrossed his legs. He knew the pose; open, inviting conversation, while his own was defensive, closed. He drew a deep breath.

“You are a master of manipulation, and you have habit of using my emotions to suit your own ends. Rather than try to calm me when I am angered, you goad me into frenzy. Rather than talking through disagreement, you twist words round and round till I unwittingly comply. There is no compromise; there is just you and what you want.

“I'm done with that. Either let me make up my own mind, or deal with the fact that I am not going to agree with everything you say or do. No more tricks, and no more playing with my mental state.”

Will had been avoiding Hannibal's eyes, but to emphasise his words, and to show the other that this was a point on which he was set to be stubborn, he looked up.

He did not let the tightened jaw, and narrowing of dark eyes deter him, though he did feel his heartrate pick up. It was not often he witnessed Hannibal allowing his own emotions to detail themselves so clearly across his face, but it was obvious that the man was annoyed.

Even though he was standing, and Hannibal remained seated, Will felt intimidated, and just a little fearful.

Hannibal's tone was low, a rumbling storm about to break. “You say that I manipulated you when you were angry. Would you rather that when you are aggravated I should shout and scream back at you? What would that accomplish?”

“That's my point; it doesn't have to 'accomplish' anything! Conversations are not battlefields.”

It was Hannibal's turn to take a steadying breath, the cool air soothing the irritation within. His manner shifted, his face relaxing and his voice lightening; more rational, reasonable. Will was not fooled, and could see the hard edge to his gaze, the way his words were so carefully chosen to hide his temper.

“I am sorry that you feel I have been influencing you against your will...”

Will pointed at Hannibal, “See that, that is what I am talking about; 'sorry that you _feel_ ' as if I have been misinterpreting the situation. You make me doubt myself, make me feel like I am in the wrong only so you can always be right. ” Will brought his arm back in, tight against his chest. “You might have said the word 'sorry' Hannibal, but that was far from an apology, and you know it.”

Hannibal might have been a waxwork, still save for the flaring of his nostrils. Barefoot but for bandages, Will curled his toes against the hardwood floors, braced against backlash.

Hannibal curled his hands together in front of his face. Will found reassurance that Hannibal seemed to be trying to hide his expressions, now that the consultant had proven he could peer past the façade. 

“Perhaps, you have a point...” His voice was slowed, as if it was an effort to agree with Will, “Unfortunately, it is in my nature to pry and prise emotions out into the light. I am a psychiatrist after all. I made a career of sorting through other people's psyches.” 

_Still not an apology_ , Will noted, but enough that he relaxed slightly, dropping his own voice to one that was calm. “All I am asking is that you try not to.”

A single eyebrow lifted, the eye underneath pinning Will with a scrutinising stare. “And who are you to make such demands of me?”

Will took a slow breath, ready, having manoeuvred the conversation in his own way for a change. Hannibal may have been master of manipulation, but Will was a very quick study. 

He smiled, a soft subtle thing, hardly there at all; “I am your house guest.”


	35. Chapter 35

In the days that followed, Will found the atmosphere in the house had changed. As his blisters and bruises healed, so too did the fractured trust between himself and Hannibal Lecter. 

There was respect now, and an understanding that Will was his own person, with views that did not always have to align with Hannibal's. Free to disagree, he felt more sure of himself, and less like a puppet. 

Both seemed more content with the new arrangement.

He had not realised to what extend how uneven the footing he had been standing upon was until Hannibal started truly treating him as an equal. He would be asked what he thought he would like to eat, and enquired as to his opinion on new items that needed to be bought, such as place mats and glassware, and shirts for himself.

Though for the most part, he was happy enough with Hannibal's sense of style, the shirts were one thing that his preferences were not as compatible. Still, new shirts had been bought, and Will was pleased that Hannibal had respected his choices.

Though Hannibal tried to compensate by the increase in plain shirts that did only held enough buttons to reach down to the collarbone by draping himself in silk-lined waistcoats and intricately patterned ties, Will found that with increased comfort. He felt more settled in himself than he had in weeks, as if he had been wearing someone else's skin, and it had not fit well.

From time to time they had jazz playing over dinner instead of classical music, and even on one occasion, an upbeat swing album Will thought Hannibal ought to try. Whilst Hannibal clearly preferred concertos to the jumpy bass line and playful lyrics, Will had caught him stepping in time to the music as the plates were cleared away.

The door to his bedroom was still locked shut when Hannibal took the truck out, but he would ask for permission to seal Will inside beforehand. 

As a test, Will one day had remarked that the day was too nice to spend cooped up indoors. In response Hannibal had simply nodded, then rethought his meal plans to accommodate the lack of fresh groceries. 

Will had spent the day out in the sunshine, with Rover pottering round at his feet.

It had been glorious.

********

Days later, and elbow deep in suds, Will had been too much focused on the dishes to hear Hannibal come round from the living room.

Lunch had been a Thai Green curry, with tofu and toasted coconut. The sticky rice that had provided prefect accompaniment, however, was proving difficult to coax from the base of the pan where it clung. Will could feel the glutinous grains under his fingernails as he tried to return the gleam to the stainless steel. 

He was only aware of how close Hannibal had come, when he saw the lean nose from the corner of his eye. 

Heat at his back, and he realised Hannibal had pinned him between himself and the sink. He stilled, waiting to see what Hannibal intended, heart starting up a frantic refrain. 

Hannibal's hand gently pulled at Will's arm, bringing it out of the soapy water.

“Leave it to soak.” he said, his voice much quieter than usual. That there was hardly space at all between them that he did not need much volume to be heard seemed entirely beside the point, his whole manner seemed tentative... shy.

Will swallowed, and gave a shaky nod, “OK then.” 

He took a small shuffling step, as if to move away from the sink, only to feel Hannibal against his back. 

It felt shockingly intimate, as if they were dancing partners. There was even music playing from the stereo system, some piano concerto circling the same three notes in waltz time.

Will gave a nervous cough, unsure of what he ought to do. Hannibal's breath was slow, unhurried, and he seemed content to remain, his hand still resting at Will's elbow.

Finally, creeping embarrassment won out, and Will pulled away from Hannibal's grip (it only occurred to him later to panic that Hannibal might not have let go). 

Blushing, he muttered an “Excuse me.” while looking down at the floor, before making hasty retreat to his bedroom.

*****

With the scent of Will still strong enough to dominate his senses, Hannibal gave a little nod to himself.

Will seemed polarised against compliments, bristling against the slightest kind word. Any attempt to mention Will's many virtues was met with scorn, scepticism and scathing sarcasm. 

It hurt Hannibal that Will would not bear to hear a positive word without thinking it false.

He could however, not bring himself stoop to praising the raccoon which habitually hung around still, even if that might have given him chance to extol at length without interruption, and have Will draw in some of the reflected warmth, as it would be directed at the creature. 

The raggedy beast did little to merit acclamation anyway, and it certainly did not deserve the abundant foodstuffs Will insisted on providing. Hannibal pretended not to notice when eggs went missing, or when he found a haphazard lump carved from the cheese block. For his own part, he supplemented the animal's diet with silvers of liver, fatty offcuts of belly and cracked bone full of marrow.

He'd have preferred to share the succulent and exquisite delights with Will, but the man had made very clear he was not yet ready to accept meat as part of his diet, let alone relish the contents of Hannibal's freezer. 

He made do with feeding the beast, a poor substitute, but less inclined to let a muddle of morals dictate its eating habits.

The raccoon had learnt to keep its distance, as Hannibal had no qualms with flicking his foot at it and withholding treats should it come too close. It would pace, out of range of his shoe, till Hannibal tipped the plateful onto the grass. Under cover of night, he and the animal often shared an unconventional midnight snack.

One thing he could say, was that the raccoon had a strong appetite, and he had yet to see it refuse a single scrap of food. Human dinner guests might have had better table manners, but even they had on odd occasion turned their nose up on his gastronomically superior fare, whilst the raccoon had eaten every bite so far.

He would not share such observation with Will however: he doubted very much that he would approve at present, and things were settling down nicely.

Since willingly adopting the title and role of house guest, Will seemed happier with his place in things. Hannibal could extend certain privileges, with understanding that as long as Will behaved as a civil and courteous guest, he would be granted increased freedoms in his choices. Hannibal of course controlled the choices offered, but Will appeared to thrive when given some slack in the restrictions of the house. 

The only thing lacking was a more physical aspect to their relationship. 

He had worked hard to break down the personal space barriers between them, and Will would tolerate touch as long as it was fleeting, or functional. Hannibal had recommended that Will wear the wrist support for far longer than necessary, simply because Will would permit him to tend to the bruised flesh till satisfied that the support was in prefect place.

Hannibal almost wished that Will might wound himself again, that he would have excuse to apply bandage or splint, and once again see Will entrust an injury to his care.

Will had shaken off the fear he had once clung to, and had adjusted to viewing Hannibal as a companion, not just a cannibal or criminal. 

The next step, obviously, was to introduce the notion of Hannibal as a possible partner.

Normally, Hannibal would woo with words, carefully crafting elegant phrases that would flatter and excite. He'd lavish verse, and quotations, as well as his own compositions, all to surround his intended with a buffet of language that they could feast upon.

With Will however, to voice the many commendations that came to mind, would only cause his house guest to frown and shake his head, disbelieving.

Some other approach was needed, hence the interaction that had taken place at the kitchen sink. It had been far more forward than he would usually dare, but Will was a unique individual, and required untraditional tactics.

Enough to fluster, but not frighten, and prompt Will to begin thinking thoughts of more intimate nature. Of how it would feel to have Hannibal pressed against him in a more sensual setting, of how the grace of his fingers would translate into delicate touch when stroking across cheek, or hipbone.

Of how good it would feel to have warm hands upon his touch-starved skin. 

Hannibal smiled, and then set to finishing up the scrubbing of the pot, the rice giving up their fight to remain under his persistent efforts.


	36. Chapter 36

“Are you asexual?”

Hannibal looked up from his wine glass, to see Will nervously grip his empty one, both hands engaged in clutching the vessel to his chest. 

Though clearly the question had been preying upon his mind, it had required the courage lend by the wine, and the shock of actually managing to utter the words seemed to have caught him off guard.

“A rather probing question to set upon me without any form of preamble, Will.”

Will dipped his head in apology, though Hannibal had taken care that his tone was not defensive or chastising. If anything, he was rather amused at the insight into the thoughts Will had been forming following the encounter at the sink the day before.

As it was a line of thinking Hannibal was not adverse to (indeed, although not exactly as he would have predicted, Will had obvious given the matter of his sexuality some thought), he did not allow Will time to withdraw his enquiry. Rather he leant back into his seat, and smiled.

“No, I am not asexual. Are you?”

“No!” Will's response was quick, and he sounded almost offended. 

Mirth at the reaction was carefully kept from his expression, as Hannibal set the wineglass to the side and folded his hands. His eyes were focused, sharp, as he drank in the way Will shifted uncomfortably under such scrutiny.

“I see. I gather then, that you are wondering why I have made no further efforts to court you... I had thought I made my attraction to yourself clear, but you seemed opposed to the idea of a physical relationship.... I decided to leave the matter, assuming that you would inform me if you happened to change your mind. Have you changed your mind?”

Will did not reply immediately, caught like a rabbit by Hannibal's gaze. He fidgeted with the glass in his hands, his face twitching, as if he was trying to hide an untruth.

“I'll be sure to let you know when the Stockholm kicks in....” he finally muttered, turning away.

Hannibal wondered if Will realised that he did not give a proper answer, which could be taken to mean any number of things. The use of the word 'when' was equally interesting, as if it was an inevitability, rather than possibility. 

Even though Will's head was turned away, Hannibal waited till he had lifted the wineglass to his mouth, before allowing himself an indulgent, and very satisfied smile. 

 

********

Though the weather had become much warmer, Rover did not seem to mind her heavy fur coat even out in the dabbles of sunlight out on the front porch. She trailed after Will, currently engaged in attempts to ascertain whether the laces of Will's shoe were edible. 

In order to save his laces from being chewed (he did not think Hannibal would find Rover's antics endearing, which would make requesting replacements awkward), Will had tucked the loose ends into the shoe, but Rover was persistent, and nimble little claws had hooked them back out for further trials into their taste.

Laughter, surprisingly blaring and bright, made Rover start, and she shot him an accusatory glare at his overly loud mirth as she hunched over her task. 

He had no difficulty meeting her eyes, or the eyes of any other animal (save perhaps the Feathered Stag, its eyes too deep and dark, and much too intelligent). Unlike humans, there was no barrage of thoughts and feelings steaming into his head.

He avoided eye contact as a rule, and when the only other point of human interaction was the Chesapeake Ripper, he was wary of looking too closely or too frequently. 

That said, he was not blind to the sight of Hannibal. They observed each other during meals, and when sharing in drinks by the fireplace, but it was a relaxed form of acknowledgement, unforced, like the calm and gentle silences between them. Eye contact was fleeting, and always with his glasses acting as a shield between them. Hannibal never took offence at his skittish gaze, never pressed him for more than he wanted to give. It was... comfortable.

Will could not remember ever feeling more able to just sit with another human, with no pressure to speak or conform, each content just to sit in the company of another. It reminded him of his dogs back at Wolf Trap, the way they were happy just to be near him. 

Being compared to a canine would not have impressed Hannibal, but Will found the analogy fitting, and did not see it as an insult. 

He liked that he did not have to worry about seeing too much, or not acting 'normal' enough. He was happy to have whole conversations staring at the fire reflected against wine glass, or at his own hands, or those of Dr Lecter.

However, that did not mean he had missed the way Hannibal had started to look at him. 

Lingering glances, held a beat too long, and almost always stolen when Hannibal thought Will was not aware. Much like when he had used the blade of a knife to see without being seen, the smooth curve of a wineglass, or the window by the kitchen sink betrayed when Hannibal's sight was upon him. He seldom bothered to lift his head to meet the gaze; those dark eyes could be as blank and expressionless as marbles, and it was nearly impossible to tell what Hannibal might be thinking. Any number of murderous notions could be passing through his mind, and yet Will did not feel afraid.

In truth, it had been some time since he had felt the need to track Hannibal's movements throughout the house, or check for the nearest exit when a sharpened knife was held by skilled hand. 

Though he could not guess at Hannibal's thoughts, he felt confident that they were not something he should be concerned over. He was sure that if Hannibal suddenly decided to revoke his pledge of peace with his houseguest, he'd be able to tell, even though the man was as hard to read as some of the books on the bookshelf, written in original Italian or Latin. 

Not that Hannibal could hide everything. Will had learnt that Hannibal smiled with his lips, not his eyes, and that a slight incline of the head could mean either amusement or irritation, dependant upon the tilt of his chin. 

He had become accustomed to Hannibal's manner, and the lack of being able to read his face. Whereas people would flash expressions constantly, each flex and twitch quickly following on from the next, a kaleidoscope that was dizzying at times, Hannibal's face was usually still as waxwork. Most times he did not bother to force an expression unless Will was nearby. 

There would be a spilt second delay (as if selecting a mask to wear) when Hannibal would wince after the crack of bone when preparing a meal, or if reading a unpleasant passage from a book, as if he had to remember to pretend such things bothered him.   
It was all pretence, for sake of making Will feel less uncomfortable around a remorseless killer, and oddly thoughtful in its own twisted way. 

Will was sure he should not feel touched by the gesture. 

There was a lot of things he thought he should not feel.

He ought not to feel flattered that Hannibal continued to look in his direction, even though his hair continued to be unruly (he once had used the kitchen scissors in an attempt to trim the growth from the ends, and Hannibal had been more upset at the uneven cut than the incorrect use of the blades). 

His choice in clothes too, most often rejecting the fine fitted shirts Hannibal had bought for him. His selection hung from his frame, the more muted plain shirts thick and comfortable, but ungainly. He should not have thought, sometimes, that he should dress better and take more care over his appearance, that he might better match the Doctor.

The sound of Hannibal's voice, soft and sure, ought not to cause his ears to prick; anxious to catch every word. He should not have felt compelled to converse, in order to draw out more from the man, intelligent, and witty, and undoubtedly interesting.

He should definitely not feel disappointed when Hannibal would hastily remove his hand should it brush against his, or when the touch of a hand against his shoulder to gain attention lasted only but a moment. 

Rather than thinking through the conflicting mess of feelings Hannibal was conjuring, Will wrapped himself in denial, its ignorant haze easier to deal with than the possibility that he was starting to romanticise a cannibal.

He told himself that it was just his empathy, muddled and mixed up due to not having anyone else to attach to, reflecting back Hannibal's attraction for him. It didn't mean he wanted the killer, didn't mean he had to reciprocate. 

He found himself seeking out that which still disgusted him; the murders and atrocities that Hannibal had committed in the past. He held onto those feelings of revolt, used them to calm himself when he feared he was perhaps falling too far under Hannibal's spell. 

_He is a monster._ He told himself, over and over, even as the man carefully plated up another entirely vegetarian dish, ever mindful of Will's chosen diet.

 _He is a monster._ he told himself, as he watched Hannibal listen to a CD, eyes closed but attentive to the interwoven harmonies of the orchestra, breaths deep with appreciation of the majesty of music.

 _He is a monster._ he told himself, as Hannibal spoke of his trips to Europe as a young man, detailing the scenery and sights with such vivid descriptions Will could almost picture the cities of Venice, or Paris, and the way they had captured Hannibal's heart with their atmospheric artistry.

 _He is a monster._ he told himself, even though he found the words rang hollow.


	37. Chapter 37

“You seem distracted of late. Is there something troubling you?”

Will looked up from where he had been worrying at a crust of sourdough bread, and shook it dismissively.

“Hmm? It's nothing, just been doing a lot of thinking....”

A click of metal on wood sounded as a fork was gently put down, and with sinking feeling Will knew he was subject to Hannibal's undivided attention. He felt a flutter of anxiety ripple through his chest.

“Might I enquire as to the focus of your intellection?”

Will ducked his head. There was very little that would give him reason for long and deep thoughts, other than Hannibal himself, or escape, and Hannibal surely knew as such. He supposed he might try to lie, and allude to notions of escape but in truth, he had not managed to come up with a single new idea that might allow him to leave safely and successfully, and that in itself had become cripplingly depressing.

He shrugged, as if it was no small thing to admit his inner contemplations. “You.”

He wasn't sure what he had expected the response to be, but the sudden flush of colour across Hannibal's cheeks, and the way he seemed to puff up his chest with pride was surprising. 

Will snorted out a low derogatory laugh. “Don't look so damned pleased with yourself.... They weren't particularly complementary thoughts.” 

Hannibal deflated somewhat, though he hid well his disappointment. “Oh?” After a moment's reflection he added; “I would still like to hear the details, if you would care to share....”

Another surprise in the space of seconds, and Will wondered if he knew Hannibal as well as he had thought. “What? Why?” The questions could have been worded more elegantly, rather than the short one-word barks, but he was thrown, and did not want to waste time composing his sentences.

“I am interested in what you think, and what you have to say.” 

“And why would I want to tell you what's going on in my head? I've been trying to keep you out of it, if you haven't noticed.”

Hannibal gave a sigh, hardly more than a breathy exhale, “In accordance with your wishes I am trying to refrain from so-called 'mind games', so in order to ascertain your mood I rely upon you to voice your thoughts and feelings.”

Hannibal picked up his fork, and bit into a piece of baked aubergine, finishing his mouthful before continuing. “You have been quieter of late. I wanted to ensure you were content...”

“Then rest assured, I'm as happy as can be expected of a prisoner.”

Rather than re-enter into another long conversation about Will's kidnapping and subsequent anger coming from such status, Hannibal speared another bite of the meal before him. “Are you unhappy?” he asked lightly.

Will's mouth opened, then shut again. “No....” he admitted. He was confused, and concerned he was loosing who he was, and the captive of a cannibal, but not unhappy.

“I am glad.”

The crackle of sourdough crust as it was broken into smaller pieces, too fiddly to eat, filed the space between them, as Will frowned down at his hands, in process of destruction. 

“How about you? Is this... arrangement... up to your high standards?”

With a slow hand, Hannibal scooped up his wineglass, and drank. He gave a short nod. “Indeed it is. I am very pleased.”

With head hung low, as if scrying the crumbs scattered across his plate and tablecloth, Will gave a soft grumble, “Of course you are...”

He straightened, and shot Hannibal a curious look, “Is this everything you imagined when you stole me away?”

Hannibal drank again, a small flash of tongue licking the droplets from his top lip. “I admit that I find you hard to predict, and so my expectations of the details of your stay here were always... vague....”  
He gave a brief smile, “Now that you have settled in though, I find myself very grateful of your continued company, and look forwards to our shared future.”

“Are you so sure you can count upon my staying?” Will heard his voice, much weaker than he would like, and drew his brows together in efforts to seem more confident than he felt.

“You said yourself that you were not unhappy here. Removed from all that caused you distress, your mind has been given the time it needed to heal. The fractures in your own personality which once threatened to drive you from your senses have mended, and I would even venture that you are sleeping better than you have in years. Why would you wish to leave?”

Will could not find words to give adequate answer, so he fell back to his standard defence of hunching his shoulders and scowling. “You mean to tell me that my improved mental health was all part of your grand plan?” His voice was laced with sarcasm and bitterness drawn from the resentment that he could not find fault with Hannibal's statement. Not that he would admit to it, but he did feel better in himself than he had in years; no longer teetering upon the brink of collapse, or terrified that the borrowed memories of murderers might some day overwhelm him.

Whereas a nod, or confirmation would only have angered Will, Hannibal instead tipped his head. “My grand plan, as you put it, extended as far as getting you safely here without the risk of being disturbed by uninvited presences. Everything that followed, has been in essence left up to you. There is no plan, no scheme.... no design.”  
He then harrumphed with amusement, “Rest assured if I could exact such control over the sequence of events, there would not be a raccoon constantly sniffing about our bins.”

Despite everything, Will laughed. 

Hannibal rose from his seat and poured more wine into each of their glasses, politely ignoring the mess Will had made of his crust. 

“Were you happy in Baltimore?”

A tilt of the head, as Hannibal contemplated the question, then; “Yes.”

“Then... then why leave? You could have....” Will found his voice drop to a whisper, as he nervously gripped the edge of his plate. He swallowed, hard against the bitter truth in his throat. “ When I found out you could have easily _dispatched_ me, hidden the evidence, and gone on as before. You had good standing in Baltimore, and I know that Jack would have found you beyond suspicion.... And I won't offend your intelligence by suggesting that you'd be so stupid to leave clues or traces... You could have stayed, if you wanted to.”

Hannibal was slow to answer, and did so with careful pacing, as if stepping on uneven ground, “Without you, Baltimore would have been a much duller place.”

Will stopped, and stared. “You chose me over Baltimore? So that you did not have to kill me, you left everything behind: your status, your house... everything...?”

A nod, so slight it might have been missed if Will have not been staring at the man across the table from him, was the only response. 

A great huff of air Will had not been aware his lungs had been holding left him, and he sank back into his chair, his spine seemingly unable to support the weight of this revelation.

After a long period of time, which Hannibal patiently waited out, Will brought his head up to face him. “Thank you...” he said softly.

“You are most welcome.” Hannibal replied, sipping his wine. 

“... for not killing me, I mean.” Will added, lest Hannibal might think him grateful for his kidnapping.

Hannibal just smiled.


	38. Chapter 38

Will felt under siege.

Nothing as obvious as directed attack, but instead a seeping, insidious assault, upon his mettle, his morals, and his mind.

It had started when after a particularly lavish spread of honeyed redcurrants, curls of shaven cheese and the most tiny and tender leaves of rocket, with a cut of medium rare steak for Hannibal and a Portobello mushroom stuffed with garlic butter and breadcrumbs for himself, and he had inquired as to the point of such effort in the presentation.

“I find that there is pleasure to be found in all aspects of a meal, and a pleasing visage feeds the eye as well as the stomach. It is an art form, of a sort, albeit one more unusual and unappreciated.”

_‘It is nice to know that my work is appreciated.’_

He had then drawn, unintentionally, comparison to the way that Hannibal's victims had been so carefully arranged to that of the food on his plate. The redcurrants became streams of blood, artfully allowed to drip and colour the canvas of the corpse. The paleness and curve of the cheese reminded him of skulls, and even the sharp tang of the leaves called up memories of marching past shrubbery and grass to go and bare witness to the latest atrocity.

He had pushed his plate away, unable to bring the food to his mouth, his head swimming with murder. 

“A problem?” While Hannibal was generally placid and calm, Will had noticed that meal-times, and failure to seem properly in awe of Hannibal's talent for cooking was a flash-point for his darker moods to emerge. His tone was all sharp edges.

“I... I just can't.... The presentation, the _design_ of it all reminds me of Baltimore, and the way you'd... flaunt your kills.”

“Ah...” Hannibal made no further comment, nor apology for his actions.

Will had looked miserably at the plate; a fresh crime scene to his mind, as the perpetrator sat across from him, and devoured his own meal; the knife sawing through meat, the leaves crunching loud as breaking bone as he bit into them.

The next dinner was the same, and the next. Spiced tomato soup became a bowl of blood, dark sorba noodles looked like matted hair and the poached eggs reminded him of eyeballs left out in the sun too long. He did not know if Hannibal was deliberate in his intention, but the effect was the same: Will found that he could not eat a bite.

Finally, he resolved to address the issue, before Hannibal's cold disappointment that he was not eating grew to something less passive.

“Why...?” he asked, as Hannibal placed his untouched plate in the refrigerator in hopes that he might change his mind later. “Why did you feel the need to desecrate the bodies of those you killed? Was it not enough that you murdered them, but you then felt you had to show off your crime?”

Dr Lecter turned, and shot him an unimpressed look that he had sought to raise a topic while both were on their feet. He gestured, lightly, through to the sitting room but Will crossed his arms, wanting straight answer rather than to dance around the point, as Hannibal was prone to do.

“It was … artful....” he said, slowly. 

“Artful?! It was brutal and awful! Not art.”

Hannibal looked longingly at the chairs, that would have proven better stage for such debate, but settled back against the counter to allow Will the space to flail his arms around as he spoke.

“Any action, that creates something new from base materials could be argued to be art. Moreso if it invokes emotion, as I think you'll find my past... work...very successfully accomplished.”

“You killed them, ended their lives. That wasn't creating something new, that was destroying something...” Will caught himself, “ _Someone _for no good reason.” he corrected.__

__“I beg to differ. Did not the first 'copy-cat' killing aid you in catching Hobbs? It served purpose; a carefully constructed gift for you.”_ _

__“A gift?!” he spluttered, then stopped, detecting Hannibal's waning tolerance for his ingratitude. If anything he seemed slightly peeved that his token was so poorly received, like a cat confused that its owner did not appreciate the half-eaten bird upon the doorstep, still twitching._ _

__“.... a girl had to die for you to make such statement.” he tried, willing Hannibal to see why he could not be grateful._ _

__“In identifying and locating Gareth Jacob Hobbs, you saved Abigail. There is a pleasant sense of balance there.”_ _

__“And the others... was there balance there too? Or just a means to fill your larder?”_ _

__He had been trying not to antagonise the killer, but something in the way Hannibal seemed so damned pleased with himself grated against his better judgement, and made his voice bitter and cruel._ _

__“...I was acting as your therapist at the time, and I wanted you to see what I had created, that I might better understand what you behold when you invoke your empathy. I thought that if I understood you better, I would be able to offer more guidance to help you understand yourself. An FBI consultant would not be called in for something so paltry as a mere homicide, so certain... dramatic flare was called for.... Perhaps there was balance; I helped you to refine your skills through my kills, and you used them to catch other murderers... ”  
Hannibal clasped his hands together, and gave a thin smile, “Regardless, I kept the FBI busy, and also well fed. Jack Crawford in particular was regular guest at my table...”_ _

__Like a mirror reflecting back the worst of him, Will found that Hannibal's own brand of sardonic cruelty eclipsed his own._ _

__He stepped back, by instinct, but then found that the horror he would have anticipated did not come. Whether desensitized to the notion of people as food, or having absorbed some of Hannibal's grim lack of compassion for his fellow man, he found he could not summon the moral outrage that ought to have been his response._ _

__Instead, quietly, as if to remind himself, “Those people did not deserve to die...”_ _

__“Those _people_ were hardly deserving of human status. They were cretins, uninspired and unpleasant... I transformed them into something greater than anything they could have hoped to accomplish. I made art of them.” _ _

__Hands with skilled fingers were spread, palm out; in celebration of his achievement._ _

___There_ was the horror, the sinking sense of unease, not at Hannibal's words, but at the fact that at somepoint, Will had started to nod in agreement._ _

__Though horrific, he could not deny that the spectacle of Hannibal's work had been sensational in imagination and scope. As a profiler, each kill had kept him busy, providing lesson plans for the students, as well as a startling level of depth he could then reveal to Crawford. It had been like decoding an painting, unpicking the use of colour and form and themes to unveil the killer's motives and drives, his contempt for the victims, his disdain for those who could not _see_ the genius displayed in visceral gore. _ _

__Even then, when he had not known the killer's identity, he had seen each kill as a piece of theatre, or a tableau. Without even realising, he had considered them art: awful, atrocious, but art never-the-less._ _

__Removed from the steadying moral compass of the FBI surrounding him, guiding him as to the 'correct' way of describing the scenes; horrifying, sick or deranged, he found his thoughts were more complimentary; inspired.... and impressive._ _

__Will ducked his head, trying to unthink such thoughts. He breathed shallow and quick, as he realised that the pieces of himself that he considered good were rapidly ebbing away, consumed by Hannibal's powerful presence._ _

__That he had not noticed, or even found that he missed what most would reckon vital as part of their humanity shocked him, worried him._ _

__“I... I need some air....” he managed to whisper, as he all but ran for the door, throwing it wide as he grasped at the railing, fearful of what he was becoming._ _

__Behind him, he could hear Hannibal in the kitchen, tidying the dishes, apparently unperturbed by Will's sudden departure._ _

__Out in the cool air, bright and pleasant, Will felt a tear well up in his eye, grieving for the sense of self he seemed to have lost along the way._ _

__Plates cleared and washed, Hannibal came up behind him, shutting the door to the house as he stepped out onto the porch, to maintain the barriers between the homestead and nature._ _

__He took in the dampness gracing Will's face with an intense gaze, fixated upon the saline shine.  
“Tears Will? For me?”_ _

__Will did not bother to correct Hannibal that he was crying for himself. Shedding salted sorrow for his own slow shift into something he did not entirely understand, but was fairly sure that those who had known him back in Baltimore would not approve of.  
Save, of course, Dr Lecter, his not-so-therapeutic therapist._ _

__“You should not cry...” Words of comfort, of reassurance, but the tone was all wrong. There was an edge to Hannibal's voice, his pitch dropped low.  
“You really shouldn’t… Entirely too tempting... It entices me to lick them up, to taste your salt and your sorrow.”_ _

__Hannibal was suddenly right beside him, and stepping closer. Will found himself still, survival overriding his sobs, as the Chesapeake Ripper closed in._ _

__“May I?”  
The request was voiced in a whisper, and Will, too scared, too much overwhelmed to refuse, nodded. _ _

__A single elegant and steady fingertip slid across his cheek, gathering up the wetness into the groves of the fingerprint. Then Hannibal, still far too close for comfort, placed his finger against his lips, tongue drawing it into his mouth. He sucked upon it, with an expression upon his face like rapture._ _

__Will stared, his chest still, his eyes blinking away a fresh set of tears that fell again his cheek._ _

__Dark eyes widened, and Hannibal started to lean close, as if he might touch his tongue to the skin to lap up the tears directly. With what little air he had left, Will made a scared sound, and Hannibal stopped._ _

__Swallowing, and schooling his expression to his usual, neutral visage, he pulled back.  
“Thank you Will.” he said quietly, as he stepped backwards. _ _

__He did not stop till he was at the door, and opened it. He stepped through the threshold, leaving Will to remember his need for oxygen, and wonder at what had just occurred._ _

__He did not know what Hannibal had been thinking, did not know what had motivated him to ask for a taste of his tears, and what had made him stop._ _

__However, he did know that as Hannibal had reached for the handle of the door, his hand had held an unmistakable tremor._ _

__Hannibal, whose every move seemed choreographed and composed, who even when taken by surprise moved with a swift confidence and graceful step, had been shaking as he left._ _

__He did not know what that meant, but Will took some small comfort that although he was in the process of some strange metamorphosis, Hannibal too was changing._ _


	39. Chapter 39

Hannibal was not a greedy man. Hedonistic, yes, but only for the finest the world had to offer, and never to excess. 

Some might have likened his dinner parties to gluttonous orgies, but Hannibal himself felt that every mouthful was to be savoured, and enjoyed. That though he sourced out the expensive and exquisite, he could reflect up the high quality, and taste the difference between lesser cuts of meat, or out of season produce. 

That his guests could not, amused him, and he sub-sequentially forgave their uneducated palates. 

His mastery in the kitchen was careful, exact. He would rather serve a meal late, than undercooked. When tasting for flavour, he would reduce his own portion upon the plate to compensate, a full and bloated stomach rarely lending itself to improve one's appetite. 

Even his kills (before Will struck his deal to curtail such activities) had been limited, though there was no shortage of fools that would have made a better side dish than a human being. He had rationed out his ire, aware that to spill too much blood would panic the herd. 

He was measured, and calculated, and took pride in such qualities.

With Will however, he felt overwhelmed by a desire to consume every bite. For all his control to slip, and to ravage at him like a beast. He would not be satisfied with a single tear, for he wanted them all. A drop of blood, or brief kiss would not sate but escalate his hunger.

He was surprised and, for the first time in a very long while, a little disappointed in himself. 

Certainly, his past held missteps and unfortunate turns of events which had been less than optimal, but these were not failings of himself. He had thought himself beyond the primal drives of man, intellectually above that of mindlessly pursuing base desires. 

Normally, he would address such urges by taking what he wanted, applying his superior mind and body to claiming that which he wished for his own. He would own his impulses, by admitting and fulfilling them, and removing their hold over him.

To do so with Will was... problematic to say the least. He would much rather pull away and berate himself for such behaviour, than push forwards and break the tenuous threads of trust that had established themselves between himself and the consultant. 

Though far from the point of self-flagulation, he did feel somewhat sorry that he had put Will in such a situation, when clearly the other was not ready. He was not used to the uncomfortable sensation of being in the wrong. 

He did not care for it.

The solution then, was to boldly gather himself up leave his room, and convince Will that no error was made on his part, that he had been seduced and cohered into action by Will's weeping. That he could not be held accountable when such temptation was placed before him.

Will was shaken and unsteady, and it would have been a simple matter to push him into into a more pleasing mindset, one that removed the fault from Hannibal, and landed it in Will's lap.

Hannibal licked his lip, thoughtful. He sat down at his desk, and clasped his hands in front of him, and decided against adding to Will's obvious distress. 

He had pledged to avoid mind games. While Will seemed poor at picking up some of his more subtle tricks, he seemed to have reached a stage where his trusted that Hannibal would not deliberately toy with his psyche. 

Will’s faith was a high motivating factor, and Hannibal found the idea of fracturing it distasteful.

It had been a long, long time since Hannibal had allowed another's thoughts and feelings to have such sway over his own actions. He wondered if Will was aware of the power he held. 

It would not do to call his attention to the shift in the dynamic between them, and so Hannibal elected to maintain their usual routine, that Will would remain oblivious. 

He would have to practice better mastery over his own emotions, and keep his desire in check, but he felt that as long as he reminded himself that it was for Will's benefit, he would strive to succeed. 

Hannibal smiled, impressed that his empath continued to surprise him. He could hardly wait to see what would happen next.


	40. Chapter 40

Will had been relying upon breakfast as his sole meal of the day to sustain him for nearly a week, and had grown used to the uncomfortable feeling of being habitually hungry. 

Greasy omelettes and messy muesli seemed to lack the same awful aura as the dishes that Hannibal continued to prepare for two, though Will still struggled to even have a plate near him, let alone partake of the meal. 

Rover, conversely, was eating like a queen, the many leftovers making their way to the doorstep where she could feast. 

Hannibal had not yet allowed Will to take over cooking a meal, but he seemed to be fast drawing to the point when he would relinquish cooking responsibilities that Will would be able to eat something beyond toast and jam, or lumpy porridge.

He had, however, offered to talk through the issue with Will, though the idea of sitting on a couch and letting Hannibal quiz him on his thoughts felt far too similar to days gone by where Will was unaware that the identity of the Ripper and his therapist were one and the same. 

He had respectfully declined. 

It was late evening, and Will had spent most of the day outside, watching Rover pottering about on her own agenda. He was hopeful that a dose of fresh air might rekindle his appetite, and came in to find that the table had already been set. Hannibal was in the kitchen, and called that he would just be a moment if Will wanted to take a seat. 

He sat down, sniffing at the air. He found the aroma to be pleasant, something spiced and rich hanging in the air.

His plate came first; a pretty platter of grilled aubergine with salted sea salt, chickpeas roasted with coconut and chili and baby eggplants, with a liberal sprinkling of cumin seeds to finish. 

It turned his stomach. 

The neat black lines charred into soft pale flesh looked like congealed slashes on skin, the flecks of chili a red spray of blood splatter, and the purple of the eggplant like bruising round a neck.

He was in the process of lamenting yet another meal gone to waste, when Hannibal brought through his own plate. 

It was the same, except in the center was a piece of meat, still pink in the middle, cut and fanned across the vegetables. It brought the meal together, the meaty undertone supporting the spice, and harmonising the different textures of the veg, into one singular symphony of taste.

It smelt wonderful, and Will found himself staring across the table, willing the meat to be lamb, or perhaps beef.

Hannibal did not smile as he lifted his fork to his mouth, lips closing round the food slowly. It was as he let his senses take in that which he ate, that his eyes shone.

“Fuck.” Will muttered under his breath. 

Hannibal gave a cough to remind him of dinner table etiquette, then tipped his head in sympathy, assuming that Will's expletive was frustration at not being able to eat, rather than finding that the smell of human flesh could be so enticing. 

When he saw that Will was watching the plate in front of him, Hannibal gave the edge of the china a small half turn, that Will might better see the moistness of the meat, the way the juices dripped onto the vegetables in glistening rivulets.

“Tenderloin, slow roasted wrapped in kale that it did not dry out. The tenderloin has less marbling that other cuts, but possesses a very delicate texture as the name would suggest. Served rare that one can appreciate the colour, and feel upon the tongue, and almost sweet taste. Would you like to try?”

Amused, Hannibal lifted his fork and cupped a hand under it, extending the piece of meat to Will. 

He would have had to rise out of his chair to reach to offered morsel, which upset his plan to rise out of his chair and walk away. Instead, he watched as the meat dripped, once; Hannibal's palm sparing the tablecloth. 

The smell was inescapable, and Will was unable to block the way the tantalising scent sneaked into his nose and lingered, making his mouth water. 

He shook his head, vaguely aware that it should not have taken him as long as it did to reject the offer to consume a piece of a human being. 

Hannibal shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

He swung the fork round, and closed his lips around the meat, making a soft sound of appreciation. 

His eyes never lifted from where they were focused, upon Will's face.


	41. Chapter 41

Will had taken to grazing throughout the day, and Hannibal had taken to turning a blind eye.

At first, he had thought that the pieces of fruit, and cheese, and other miscellaneous foodstuffs that were vanishing from the refrigerator were being fed to the raccoon, but he had caught Will placing a stolen morsel between his lips as he hurriedly turned away from the open refrigerator door. Rather than curtail this new source of nutrition, he kept his quiet. It was better, he reasoned, to permit the poor habit, than demand that Will survive on breakfast and cups of tea (which of late featured a selection biscuits as a standard, in attempts to coax Will into eating and maintaining his weight).

Besides, never knowing what might be left within the fridge challenged his skills as a chef.

It was slim silver lining, given that his meals were made for two but only eaten by one. If his ego had been frail, he imagined that he might have found Will's constant rejection of his fare would haven shaken his confidence. 

However, he had been interested to see that Will had shown spark of interest in the tenderloin of an odious so-called patron of the arts, who had neglected not only to ensure her hairpieces did not obscure her fellow's view of the stage, but also whose silenced phone had rattled repeatedly throughout the performance, the foolish woman thinking that she could not have possibly turned off the device.

He started to place thin slices of cured ham, and small dishes of pate, out in the fridge, uncovered, that Will could, if the notion took him, help himself. It was a hopeful act, and some-what wasteful as when uncovered the meat did not keep as long, but the chance was too good to pass up.

The raccoon at least, growing rather rotund, did not seem to mind that it suddenly was granted much more protein, as smarmy IT technician, and an accountant who thought to try and blackmail the prestigious Dr Lecter, and a parking-space hog, were thrown out onto the grass.

His freezer stocks were waning low, which caused Hannibal to feel unsettled, since Will seemed no closer to lifting the embargo on fresh supplies. 

It was less than ideal.

However, he kept his word, and the local populace was safe from his murderous ire. 

He did not lash out, when the loud wet wheezing of a terminal smoker outside his tea rooms soured his appetite from the delicately brewed leaves, nor did he quietly remove from the streets a pair of new mothers, who insisted on travelling side by side with their prams, that no-one else could pass, instead be reduced to their laborious pace and subjected to their trivial talk of the latest celebrity gossip and the even more insipid triumphs of their own squalling spawn.

Thus, after his trials in town, Hannibal was unimpressed that his commercial post box number held within it in a paper that could prove to further complicate his house guest's disposition. He'd already read a digital copy of the article of interest, as he followed closely the academic achievements of those back in Baltimore, but he had thought it would have been longer before the paper made its way to print.

That he would show it to Will was of no doubt, but the timing seemed particularly poor. He deliberated holding it back, but the paper was dated, and will would surely come to question why Hannibal had not shared it as soon as he was able. 

So, as token to Will's own ability to handle himself, and an effort not to be seen to be meddling for his own ends, Hannibal took the article home, and laid it out on the dinning room table. 

Will came through, and looked down, and Hannibal could see his eyes flick back and forth across the words, devouring the text as quick as he was able. He looked up, frowning.

“'The Loss of Self through Empathic Disorder: A Case Study, by Dr Alana Bloom.'.... This is about me, isn't it?”

Hannibal nodded, noting the way Will's expression had turned anxious.

“But... me and Alana had an agreement. That she'd not publish on me... Oh god, is she dead? Is this a posthumous publication?”

“Dr Alana Bloom is very much alive and well, and enjoying a spate of high acclaim for this particular paper.”

“Then... then she thinks I am dead.....”

Hannibal took a deep breath, and stepped forwards, and lay a hand upon Will's shoulder, not to hold him but to steady him against his coming words.

“It has been nearly a year, Will. Yes, they all think you are dead.”


	42. Chapter 42

Will was still, and did not even move to sweep Hannibal's hand from his shoulder. 

He felt a fierce anger that Alana had unwittingly broken their pact, though he could forgive her mistake. 

He had disappeared, with no word nor sign of his continued existence for long enough that any hope for his survival would have wilted away. That it had been nearly a year came as a surprise, but he really ought to have guessed, having borne witness to the changing seasons.

In truth, he had been willfully ignorant, trying not to make note of the length of time he had been kept in captivity. Trying desperately not to reach the conclusion that if Hannibal could keep him a year, he could very easily keep him indefinitely.

He sighed, and looked down at the paper. He could already tell he would not enjoy reading it, but that he would regardless. 

The pact between himself and Dr bloom had been put in place, not only to spare him being scrutinised through professional paradigms but also to save his and Alana's relationship. He knew that if she were ever to publish, that would signify the end of their friendship.

That he was unlikely to ever meet Alana again was of little consequence, for she had remained, preserved within his memories, as a kind and gentle face. It had been a source of comfort for him, to know that although he was trapped, she was out there, ever caring, ever smiling.

He was not dead and nor was Alana, yet he felt like he had permanently lost her. No, it was worse than that; he felt like he'd been betrayed, and abandoned. 

No-one was coming to save him. Not Jack, not Beverly, and not Alana. There was no team chipping away at the mystery of his disappearance, no task force dedicated to locating him. They had all decided that due to the facts, he was likely dead. Any manpower searching for him would have been pulled, which left him out in the middle of nowhere, with Hannibal.

Glancing up, he saw Dr Lecter staring at him, trying to decipher his expression; something torn between fury and grief, with the grim set jaw of baring oneself for a deeply unpleasant task. 

He did not fancy reading the article with an audience, and so, as politely as he was able, he gathered up the paper, and took it to his room, shutting the door (though not fully closed) behind him.

********

The paper was challenging, not only because of the dense medical jargon he was not versed in, but also that Alana had apparently decided that as a show of respect for the subject matter, she would use his name in reference to him and not some alias. Perhaps better than seeing Patient, or Case Study, but the use of the word 'Will' seemed over-familiar and jarring given the otherwise detached and clinical style of the paper.

He forced himself to read, as his character was dissected; his entire personality pulled apart and analysed. His past history was examined in depth, his family records, and references made to the multitude of psychiatric persons involved in his mental health interventions. 

He could not decide which was worse, that his privacy had been so entirely invaded and committed to paper, or that from the very beginning in the opening statement, Alana was wrong about him. 

She was firmly of the option that his empathy compromised him, that in efforts to appease those around him he would almost always put the welfare of others before his own. That even a photograph of a victim would invoke such a strong empathic response that he would neglect himself in favour of aiding the police and FBI.

Dr Bloom remarked that Will was 'selfless to the point of self-destruction', and she criticised the police force for taking advantage of him, and recommended towards the end of her article, that any future cases with similar empathic traits were viewed with care and consideration, that they might not suffer the same fate as Will Graham, whose desire to bring the Chesapeake Ripper to justice had more than likely driven him directly into harms way. 

Disgusted, Will threw the paper from him, where it thudded and fluttered against the wall. 

There was a knock, and Hannibal swung the door open, standing dutifully on the other side of the threshold, awaiting permission to enter. 

Will gestured that he could do as he pleased, since he was hardly in a position to argue. He was only a captive, and would remain so till Hannibal grew tired of him. It seemed useless to pretend otherwise. 

With his head dipped towards the fallen paper, Hannibal crossed the room and stooped to gather it up. He looked down at the sheets held in his hands, and shuffled them back into aliment. He spoke softly; “She is wrong, but means well. She hopes that this paper might help people handle any others like yourself with more care....”

“Her portrayal of me is some poor, pitiful creature. It reads like they should have locked me up! Stuck me in an institution somewhere because I was so fucking delicate! Like I was incapable of looking after myself!” Will's voice was low, and rapid.

Hannibal kept his head down. 

“They greatly underestimate you. But, in their defence, they do not understand. People will often misinterpret those who are different, and seek to correct or curtail anything that falls out with the normal spectrum.”

Will hunched his shoulders, refusing to let Hannibal's soothing tones steal his anger. Everything was infuriating; Hannibal's use of the present tense, to neatly circumvent the fact that everyone else in the world thought that Will Graham was a deceased person, save for the Ripper. That Hannibal kept his glaze directed downwards, whether to avoid confrontation or out of respect for Will's aversion to eye contact, Will couldn't tell, but each was an annoyingly considerate option. 

Even the fact that Hannibal had not sought to sugar-coat the paper, nor try to villainize Alana Bloom. 

Will felt a headache start to form under his temples, and rubbed at the side of his head with the heel of his palm.

“Don't give me that! You are a fucking psychiatrist; your job is to correct abnormal thought patterns.”

“True.” Hannibal agreed, “However I also know how hard it can be when you learn that you do not fit it with what most people conciser acceptable thoughts and behaviours.”

Will jerked his head up, and scowled.

“You mean like eating people?”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise, and flicked his eyes upwards, briefly, his pupils seeming just a little darker.

“Fuck you!” Will shouted, and gave Hannibal a solid push against his shoulder, aiming to drive the man out the door. Hannibal swayed with the shove, but his feet remained firmly planted.   
He raised his head at a tilt, curious to what might have prompted the outburst.

“You are a cannibal, and a serial killer, and we are _not_ even remotely similar! Get out!”

Hannibal, though it was obvious he would have rather stayed and seen the argument through to a conclusion, turned his back. He took the paper with him as he left. 

Will, as soon as Hannibal was clear, slammed the door shut, his breaths harsh and teeth clenched tight. He paced, two steps away from the door, one back, before he sat down heavily upon the bed.

Hannibal had not even taken the opportunity to speak the last word, and Will felt like there was nothing but anger and irritation and fury within his head.

He was not on par with the Chesapeake ripper, and he certainly was no psychopath..... but the notion that he may have more in common with Hannibal than he would like was a chilling prospect.

He was no benevolent martyr to the cause of justice, no selfless saint. He pushed himself to the very limits of his physical and mental health, not because of some overpowering altruistic streak, but to prove to himself that he was not like the monsters he chased. 

It was all too easy to slip inside the head of a murderer, and the thrill and power was intoxicating. He could see himself all too easily becoming that which he hunted, infected by the darkest of minds. 

The first case he was involved in should have warned him off his chosen career, when he looked at the dead body and saw not a victim, but something hateful rendered still as the killers mindset crept across his own. He had sneered at the corpse, thinking that the woman had deserved her fate, and then rushed for the edge of the crime scene to throw up his breakfast in disgust at himself.

It was then, out of desperate desire to prove that he was better than that, that he helped the department (once they had stopped laughing aloud at his weak stomach) identify and locate the killer. He had thought, hoped, that delivering justice would cleanse him of the unclean sensation lurking behind his eyes whenever he saw the victims name in print.

Even when sentenced and incarcerated however, the murderer haunted him. So he took on another case, and another, seeking to prove that he was on the side of good, that he _was_ good, despite the darkness within his mind.

It was one of the reasons he surrounded himself with dogs, immersing himself in their inerrant good nature that it may rub off on him, rather than the black and violent thoughts of the madmen he channeled. 

He supposed he might blame his temper on the fact that the only other person he had contact with in the last year was a cannibalistic serial killer, but he knew that the anger, and even the fact that he had physically pushed at Hannibal, came from a dark place within him that he had harboured for many years. 

Thought he always fought to contain his more violent impulses, he wondered if his mind which had been repeatedly saturated in evil would ever be completely cleansed, or if he would carry the shadows of numerous killers with him always, their thoughts and actions muddling with his own memories till permanently entwined. 

He wondered if Hannibal was fully aware of the potential monster he had brought into his home.


	43. Chapter 43

When Will came out from his bedroom, he did so quietly, as if in apology for slamming the door earlier. 

The anger had left him, and though he tried to keep the outward fury going to save himself from dreaded and dangerous introspection, without regular meals he did not have the energy to fuel such exertion. As a result, he was sullen, dwelling too deep.

Though he did not wish to say it, he hoped that Hannibal would be able to help. If only to show him that no matter his fears for himself, there existed worse personalities.

The Chesapeake Ripper was rinsing out a teapot when he came through to the kitchen. Lunch had apparently been skipped in favourite of afternoon tea, and a selection of fruit slices and biscuits were gathered in the middle of the table. In front of both his and Hannibal's chair were two delicate teacups, the handles so small that the handles could not fit a finger, and had to be pinched.

“Come.” Hannibal said, “Drink something. You shall feel better for it.”

Will sat, and bunched his hands in his lap. Dark hair fell across his eyes, as he dipped his head. He was about to start a clumsy apology, when Hannibal held up a hand in a gesture that indicated he would like to speak first.

“I never meant to imply that you and I were the same. We are two very different people, and to suggest otherwise does us both a discredit.”  
“It is perhaps just as well. If you were like me, I fear it would become frightfully messy in a very short space of time.”

The dark edge of his attempt at humour appealed to Will's mood, and he gave a short nod, and the briefest flicker of a smile.

“True. I am sorry for shouting at you Hannibal, and for swearing.... and pushing you. The article upset me, but that's no excuse for losing my temper and taking it out on you.”

Hannibal poured the tea, and as Will added a lump of sugar, and milk, he found the contains of the milkjug to be thick, likely cream. To make of his lack in meals, Hannibal seemed intent on slipping him as many calories as he could. Will was not ungrateful.

“The article was undoubtedly difficult for you to read. It was to be expected that emotions would run high as a result.” he sat down against creaking leather, added cream to his own cup, and sipped. Will mirrored him, and though he might have softly clinked the china of the cup against the saucer whereas Hannibal was silent, the hot liquid soothed him, and he let out a sigh of both appreciation, and releasing the last of his anger. 

Such emotion had no place at afternoon tea.

“I just....” he started, staring down at the cup, “I _liked_ Alana. How could she have gotten things so wrong about me?”

If Hannibal noticed the use of the past tense, he did not show it in his expression.

“You are perfectly capable of looking after yourself, and making your own mind up about what you will and will not do...” Hannibal gave a nod acknowledging Will's own stance that differed from his within the house. There was no irritation at the conflicts, but rather a softness suggesting that he was quietly pleased that Will strove to stand firm on certain issues. 

Will filed that particular piece of intel away for later analysis, finding it unexpected and strange.

“However,” Hannibal continued, “you did indeed dedicate yourself to the FBI and seeking out some very unpleasant people. You did a lot of good, saving lives and stopping criminals, and for most, that would be reward enough.”  
“I get the impression however, that while the payoff of your endeavours will have factored in to your persistence in your profession, that there was something else to consider. I think Alana may have been on the right track that your empathy did have an influence, but perhaps not in the way she suggests in the paper.”

Will's eyes widened, and swung up to look Hannibal in the eye, terrified that the psychiatrist had somehow seen into his head and recognised the darkness there. 

Hannibal cocked his head. The temptation to pry was clear but rather than inquiring into the sudden flash of fear, he chose to move on and explain his own theory.

“You were, as part of your work, surrounded by people who too had chosen law enforcement as their career choice. I feel that your empathy may have tuned in on their expectations, which would have made it more difficult to safeguard your own health. I think it would have been a feat of momentous proportions to be able to refuse, when you could feel, albeit subconsciously, _their_ hopes resting upon you.”  
“You would feel obliged and pressured to succeed, even at the cost of your own sanity. However, I doubt that they would not have been aware that their will would impose upon you. ”

Will was impressed. He had not considered that there was more than one reason he kept going back into situations he knew to be damaging to him. He felt relief too, that though insightful, Hannibal had not mentioned the darker reasons for his dedication. 

He thought of his colleagues, awaiting him to speak the clues needed to crack cases. His students too, all hungry for knowledge, clustered round in pursuit of his teaching, though he made for a poor speaker. Standing in the front of a classroom with all eyes on him had been unpleasant, but he had repeatedly suffered through it, and now he struggled to understand why he had put himself through such gauntlet. 

He remembered sometimes dreading seeing Alana, her concern creating conflict within him, that though there was a murder to solve she would insist that he take some time to himself. She had never understood that time on his own was the worst thing for him, that he would blame himself for every corpse he did not save, and that waiting would only allow sadistic killers more time to select and stalk a fresh victim. 

One man however, did fully understand that, and made no secret of impressing upon Will the consequences of delay.

“I think you may be right, and they probably did not mean to make me feel pressurised. Save for Jack. “ Will said, eventually. Hannibal gave a little nod that he agreed, but had not wished to say as much. 

“Crawford is a particularly driven and determined man.” 

“He was a dick.” Will said, chuckling, the freedom to state it aloud a giddy sensation. 

Hannibal lifted his cup, slowly, that Will could see the smirk hid behind the edge of china; “I believe 'detective' is the preferred term.”

“I think I might prefer dick to be honest. He saw me as a tool... as a handy criminal capturing machine. And you the engineer to make sure I didn't break down.”

Hannibal stopped smiling, and put his cup down. “You were not the only person he saw as means to an end. He cultured a friendship with myself because I offered possible elevation in his place in society. He was not unkind, nor entirely compassion-less, but he does had tendency to put his goals before that of others.”  
“But he is far from here, and we should not dwell on his flaws without him able to defend himself.”

“I suppose...” the edge of the cup was thin, and Will absently ran a finger round the rim.

“Do you miss them?”

Will's fingertip paused, and he glanced up into a pair of sharp eyes set within a still face. The question was abrupt, and unusually direct, and should have been an easy matter to answer.

“... I feel I should be saying yes....” he started. Will no longer even contemplated lying; Hannibal too well practised at picking out his untruths, just as he himself could read the doctor. The honesty between them was refreshing, and terrifying.   
“I thought I missed Alana, but it turns out she hardly knew me, so I am not sure anymore.”

He cupped his hands round the cup, “I don't miss the work, that's for sure....”

“Which supports my theory that you were perhaps unintentionally influenced by those around you.”

Will nodded, and Hannibal let one of his rare smiles spread across his face, pleased. Will imagined that Hannibal had had such theory on Will and his social circles and his justice-seeking motivation for a while, but confirmation from the source validated his hypothesis.

Leaning back in the chair, Will contemplated as he drank the last of his tea. Without the work, nightmares of blood and violence and death were less common. His sleeping pattern was notably improved, and he was for the most part content. Though housed with a killer, he was not in the same perpetual state of anxiety that had clung to him back in Wolf Trap. 

He did not have to stand centre stage in front of students, did not have to run through the ridiculous rigmarole of social niceties. More importantly, he did not have to bare the brunt of Jack's deafening disappointment at being unable to locate the Chesapeake Ripper.

Strange, that once he had fixated so entirely on catching the killer, his days dedicated to delving into the crime scenes Hannibal had left for the FBI, his nights haunted by horrors, hunting for a man that did not wish to be revealed. Now he would happily sit and have tea with him.

Jack would be beyond livid if he knew. 

He supposed that he could try to end Hannibal, here, in the house he had been stolen away to, but he knew all too well that even if he were to succeed, he would be dooming himself to a slow death of starvation as result.

Whether because he had come to regard Hannibal as more than a killer, or because he had shed his so-called self-destructive selflessness, he felt no compulsion to sacrifice himself in efforts to stop the man. 

Will tipped his head to the side, and tried to remember the last time he'd been afraid of Hannibal 

His words still were slippery, liable to trip one up if not careful. Will was sometimes scared what might be revealed in his next misstep, but of late their conversations had felt less like traps waiting to spring and more like the comfortable back and forth of friends.

They each had their trigger points and temper, but as he had regrettably proved earlier, it was his that was more likely to erupt in an uncontrolled outburst. 

He did not even fear that Hannibal might begin courting him in earnest; the doctor having been every inch a gentleman and more, despite his declaration of interest. He trusted that Hannibal would respect his decision in the matter, even if it was to politely decline any future advances. 

That Hannibal might attempt such did not strike the same dread within him, which considering that Will regarded himself as straight, or at the very least abstinent from relationships with murderers, caused him to frown.

He looked up, and his fingers tightened round the china teacup.

“Hannibal.... You mentioned how in Baltimore I was affected by those round me, without even realising....Is that what you hope will happen here?”  
“Isolated, with only yourself for company. Do you think that I'll somehow start to adopt your views... That I'll start to view this,” Will gestured angrily to the laid out table for two, and the space between them, “as the romantic relationship you would wish?”

Hannibal's expression soured, as if he had taken a sip of corked wine. He returned his cup to the saucer upon the table. It rattled as it settled into place.  
“Do not dare think that I would do such a thing. I have taken every effort to make no demands of you, to allow you time and space as you desired.”

Colour had risen in Hannibal's cheeks, a blotchy blush under each eye. Will stared, fully aware of that his gaze could be considered rude, but so shocked at the reaction he could not pull his eyes away.

“You said yourself though, I am...” Will's mouth twisted downwards, “'influenced' by others.”

It was uncomfortable to think of his mind like an empty glove, ready to take on the aspects of whatever hand happened to be near. He found that he was more perturbed at his own weakness, than the prospect that the current controlled hand might be that of a serial killer.

Something shifted behind Hannibal's eyes, and though still tense, he allowed his breaths to come and go a little more easily. He spoke softly, and carefully.

“When surrounded on all sides, and given no quarter for yourself, yes, you are at risk. However your mind is no soft clay, ready to be imprinted by any and all it comes into contact with. Your defensive barriers alone protect you considerably, though I suspect they have come into existence through necessity rather than choice.”  
“So, I would propose that when given space to simply be, you would find that you are able to shore up your own personality, rather than seeking out facets of mine to borrow.”

Hannibal huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh, “ It might surprise you to learn I would not wish you to become more like me. As I said before, I fear it such event would be bloody, and brief.”  
“No, I prefer your will to be your own. You are a remarkable man, and I would not wish you anything less than yourself.” 

Though he thought the compliment sincere, Will shifted under the words. They felt too heavy to take on, and it was easier to move on and try to forget the way Hannibal looked upon him; all admiration and longing.

“That said... I am not the same man you took from Baltimore.” It seemed a milder way to explain that Will was not sure who he was anymore. 

“Naturally, but then, neither am I. People are not static photographs, forever still. We continue to develop as time passes. Our discussions have not consisted of nothing but empty words, and this last year had not been lacking in more.... unusual events, but I think we understand each other much better than before.”

Will thought on how his fear, and even hatred of Hannibal seemed lacking. “I feel... compromised.”

“Any relationship consists of compromise, on both sides. May I remind you that the freezer in the garage has not been supplied with fresh stocks for many months?”

That he was not alone in the shift of his personality was reassuring. There was something pleasing that Hannibal too, had changed, at least in his habits. 

Something similar to an equilibrium had grown between them, and Will could suddenly see that when Hannibal had stopped killing, he then had less reason to be afraid, and to hate the man. 

Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.

“That... that's a good point. Thank you.” Will gave a lopsided grin, and finished the last of his tea, rendered tepid by the time taken to sort through the emotional tangle of his head. “I feel better now. Strange to say it, but talking to you actually helps... You should be a shrink or something...”

Hannibal did not reply, but smiled, the fractional curl of his lips so slight it seemed hardly there are all.

Will returned the smile, and settled down to eat some biscuits. He even nodded gratefully when the Chesapeake Ripper, infamous serial killer and cannibal, offered to refill his cup. 

It made the tea taste sweeter, knowing that if he found out, Jack would have been furious.


	44. Chapter 44

Hannibal was safely engaged with the preparation of the evening meal, leaving Will free to venture outside and watch the light fade across the woods outside. 

He could hear the high-pitch of flittering small birds, punctuated by the low coarse call of corvids as the sun dipped down, and after a little while, Rover made an appearance, peering out from the trees, before making her way over. 

Her eyes shone as she circled round, keeping her distance, sniffing the air to see if there was food on offer to make it worth her while to come closer. Empty handed, Will guiltily gave her an apologetic gesture that she would not be receiving her usual bounty that evening.

Despite no bribe to secure her affections, Rover remained.

He was a little surprised, but grateful for the company. Surrounded by deep dark shadows, black as a raven's wing, he could trust that she's detect anything untoward before his own dim senses. That she seemed happy to shuffle about in the open, gave him a feeling of security.

He walked, one foot in front of the other, without purpose or direction, trailing after Rover as she foraged. She'd double back towards him every now and then, as if checking he still had nothing to offer her, but for the most part she wandered around the house in a slow, meandering circuit.

The feathered stag too, was present, but hidden deep within the shade of the dense pines, watching with a steady gaze. Will saw it, even though its matt black feathers blended with the darkness around it, but dutifully pretended it had escaped his notice. He had long since decided that if the strange apparition wanted Will's attention, it would have to stop sulking about in the shadows, and step out into the light.

Rover was better company at any rate, and had the advantage of not making Will worry that he was seeing things that weren't there.

Dusk settled into place, and although a little chilly, Will stayed outside. Not for fear of what lay inside the house, carefully arranging food for them both, but because the air was refreshing, and the quiet a balm to help compose his thoughts.

That Jack would have been disappointed in his consultant was an understatement, but Will found that he did not feel as bad as he felt he ought to. 

It was as Hannibal had said: away from the people in his life that had unwittingly been driving him from his senses, he was freed of the demands they placed upon him. 

Though he had not asked to be forcibly removed from their influence, he could appreciate that it offered him much-needed distance to see things from a more objective point of view, rather than held in the mire of their expectations. 

Hannibal was also a considerate host. A killer, a cannibal and a manipulative monster yes, but also fast becoming the closest thing to a friend as Will had ever had.

The house was a still prison, true, but it was peaceful and pleasant, and perhaps exactly what he needed. It certainly was better than the psychiatric institute Alana would have had him committed to, if she had her way.

Alana. The word tasted bitter now, her paper poisoning Will's opinion of her. He scowled, and Rover, wild and wary, retreated a little way from his thunderous expression.

For the sake of the raccoon, and given that Alana was miles away and would not be aware that she caused such anger, Will forced himself to relax.

It was as simple as that. His shoulders slipped low, and his brow unknotted. Tension ebbed from his frame, and he stood a little taller.

In past experience such feeling was long sought after, but rarely achieved. It seemed just a little too easy, and Will folded his arms across his chest. Not for the first time, he wondered if Hannibal was tampering with his food and drink, slipping him a mild narcotic, or sedative. 

Except, he didn't think Hannibal would stoop so low. It seemed unlikely that he would turn to a chemical crutch, when he'd be far more interested to see if he could bring about the same effect with only his own words.

In addition, Will's head had never felt clearer. He didn't have to wade through lingering cobwebs of those he had looked into to get to his own mind on matters, nor find his thought process tangenting off at any opportunity. Even the stag seemed settled, its presence subtle and unobtrusive.

He felt stable, and sane, and only a little irritated that he knew that he owed his steady state of mind to Hannibal and his kidnapping.

Hannibal had made it clear that Will Graham would not escape the boundaries of the homestead, and in some ways, he was rather relieved he did not have the choice about whether he would go back. He was not sure he would.

In the privacy of his own mind, he admitted that he actually preferred where-ever he was to Wolf Trap.

His wristwatch no longer functioned as anchor, for he knew where he was. It served to only notify him of the actual time, and not to ground him. He could do that for himself these days.

He luxuriated that he did not have to balance his own sanity against his grim workload, and it was pleasant to be treated as a person, rather than a walking case study. 

It was also something of a novelty that he could see Hannibal as a person as well, and not just a murderer that needed to be stopped. Whereas the police department in Baltimore would have reduced Hannibal down to his crimes, Will had the opportunity to actually see more of what made the man.

He saw elegance, and artistry, however gruesome. He saw talent, and passion, and dignity. The man was fiercely intelligent, but also in possession of a wicked wit. He had killed people, but he had also stopped when Will demanded it of him.

And, most importantly, he had given Will the chance to take back his mind for himself. 

He did not seek to abuse Will's empathy, nor channel him to other ends. He was not a case to be documented, nor a problem to be solved. Hannibal seemed satisfied that Will was only himself. 

Perhaps the same as one might enjoy restoring broken toys or worn antiques, Hannibal had managed to pull him from the brink of breakdown. His profession would have guided his desire to see Will whole, rather than fractured, but Will did not feel like Hannibal was done with him yet. 

Which was just as well, because Will had not yet finished unveiling the doctor. There was much more he wanted to uncover, much more he wanted to _see_.


	45. Chapter 45

When called in from the cold; his hands and face chilled, Hannibal had provided a mug of hot chocolate next to Will's plate. It was beautifully presented in a tall pale mug, and the surface of the liquid glossy with cream. Will decided that Hannibal was working from recent experiences that even though the main course of orzo pasta and butterbean stew was wholesome and hearty, it would likely remain uneaten at the end of the meal. 

Will sipped at the hot chocolate, feeling like he was somehow cheating by taking his dessert before the main. 

Sweet was all well and good, but he felt like he needed something more substantial to nourish him. Something real.

He picked up the fork, and brought a mouthful of the stew to his lips. 

It was rich, but balanced. The acidic tang of tomato coupled with the salted seasoning filled his mouth, and he found himself welcoming the savoury weight upon his tongue. 

Will ate a further forkful. 

Displaying impeccable manners, Hannibal did not stare. The pace of his fork rising and falling from his own plate was even as a metronome, without his usual conversation. It was as if he feared words might undo the sudden and unexpected progress made.

With a grin that he for once felt braver than Hannibal, Will spoke, breaking the silence; “It's good. Rustic.” 

He continued to clear his plate, even as Hannibal failed to mask his surprise that Will was eating again. There was a lightness to his movements, as his expression shifted to one of elation.

Only when the white of each dish was fully revealed, and taken to the sink, did Hannibal   
let his gaze fall upon his houseguest.

Will met his eyes, and held up a hand in a gesture for quiet before Hannibal could ask the burning question he'd held upon his tongue throughout the meal. 

“Before you ask, I don't know. I don't know what was different about this meal, or what what changed. Frankly, I don't care. Let's just be satisfied that I seem to be less of a picky eater, and leave it at that.”

Hannibal folded his hands together, fingers interlocking neatly. “As you like...”

They both knew Will was lying, but Hannibal seemed much too pleased that Will was partaking in meals again to call the consultant out on his deception.

Will knew exactly what had changed that he could once again eat with a killer. 

Though the same hands prepared the food, the table set in the same way, his perception of the chef in question had shifted. There was more to Hannibal than the Ripper, he could see that now.

Rather than dwell on his growing tolerance for murderers, Will collected a glass of port and sat by the fire. Hannibal joined him, and in the flickering light of the flames the liquid in his glass and the colour of his eyes seemed almost the same shade; a deep and dark red.

Turning to his host, Will leaned forwards in the chair. “So... I have to ask, even though I'm not sure I'll like the answer. What do they think happened to me?”

Hannibal mused over a sip of port, and his reply before speaking, “You refer to those back in Baltimore? With little evidence and no leads, there are several theories as to why you cannot be found. The current hypothesis is that you had a burst of insight on the identity of the Ripper ---”

“So far true...” Will muttered darkly. 

Hannibal waited till Will took on an appropriately apologetic expression at interrupting before he continued; “And that you followed up on that lead. You found the Ripper, and he killed you before you could report your findings to the FBI.”

Will refrained from pointing out that that is pretty what much had happened, though instead of death he had been kidnapped.   
“What do they think happened to you then?”

Hannibal sat back in the chair, and gave a slight smirk. “Due to the fact we both seemed to disappear at the same time, I was a suspect for a time, as were you. However, my character references from colleagues and one Jack Crawford have seen to it that I am for the most part considered a victim, and not the perpetrator.”  
“Without evidence to offer leads as to what occurred, the theory is vague, and sketchy. At some point during the sequence of events, the thinking is that I became involved, whether through unfortunate happen-stance or because you decided to enlist my help. They see me as a further victim of the Ripper, and believe that if they ever uncover your body, they will fine mine also.”

Will frowned, Hannibal's expression of amusement odd given the grim subject matter.

“You like that... That you were so well hidden you are considered beyond suspicion.”

“It is pleasing to know that all my efforts to remain undetected were not in vain.”

With measured voice and air of contentedness, Will should have been satisfied with the answer, but something rang off key to him. He could have lifted his glasses to see the full picture, but self-preservation stayed his hand. 

“There's more than that though...” he prompted, indirectly asking Hannibal to reveal more of himself. 

Hannibal could not resist sharing the source of his mirth.   
“I enjoy knowing that they are not entirely wrong. That we are indeed together, just not in the state of decomposition they reckon upon. I will confess that the irony of their error is entertaining.”

Will shook his head, but with a smile, as he grudgingly appreciated Hannibal's darker sense of humour.

“Is it always the Ripper they think got me... us? There were other killers I did not find but gave my help to catching... and murder victims that could have been prevented if I had only been a little more clever... I did not have many friends.”

“At first the FBI were slow to suspect Ripper involvement, due to the lack of corpses on display, but since the Ripper has yet to make a reappearance, they have decided that there must be a connection.  
“If you had uncovered him, it would mark his retirement, since for him the game would be over. It has been hypothesised that your body was not put up on show out of respect since you were the one to finally find him. That the Ripper admired you too much to make a spectacle out of you.”

“And did you?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you admire me?”

Hannibal took another sip from his glass, and nodded his head. “You found me, despite my best efforts to hide. You saw me, when no-one else was even looking in the right direction. Of course I admire that.” 

Will raised a brow in disbelief. “Even though it wrecked up all your plans?”

Though uneven, it was not an unkind twitch of the lips that followed, as Hannibal curled his hands round his port glass. “I had every confidence that at some point you would see through the deception, and did not count on it lasting.” He gestured out towards the house, “So I incorporated your inevitable comprehension into my plans.”

“...You had a lot of faith in my ability...”

“Rightly so. You have remarkable gift for observation. It would have been remiss of me not to acknowledge your talents.”

The turning of the head away from the source of recognition was slow, but in the end habit won out, and Will ducked his head so that his hair, as well as his glasses, covered his eyes.

He drank deep of his cup as Hannibal tactfully moved on to a fresh subject.

“There is an alternate theory on your fate, that I only mention for sake of making you aware of all thoughts on the matter; That you yourself were the Chesapeake Ripper, and suffering from multiple personas.” Hannibal's tone was scornful of the misdiagnosis, but Will thought he could detect an element of irritation that someone else might take credit for his work. 

“On discovering this through one of our therapy sessions,” Hannibal continued, “you then attacked and killed me, deposed of the body and ran, either to commit suicide or start afresh somewhere new.”

Will sighed, knowing that he would have presented as a much more believable Ripper than Dr Hannibal Lecter. That this version of events drew so much from conjecture was of little matter, it still contained enough doubt of who Will Graham actually was that it would be widely held as truth. 

“I can only guess that tattletale ran that particular story....” 

Hannibal nodded.

“You couldn't have cut out her tongue and stuffed it between her laptop? It would have almost been a public service....” Will mused aloud, then, on hearing the echo of his words, startled. 

He snapped his jaw shut, that he would not suggest further victims to the Chesapeake Ripper, even if in jest... Mostly in jest.

His eye was caught by movement outside, and he turned to look, ignoring that although silent, Hannibal wore an expression that informed Will he had much that he would like to say about such callous statements about murder.

Beyond the window, he saw the stretching shadows of antlers, with what looked like a spiders' web strung between the prongs. A net, a trap, and Will worried what it was supposed to mean.

He lifted his glasses, and saw that the strands were not silk, but knotted fishing line, dotted with feathered flys and hooks, shining silver in the moonlight. The stag turned its head slowly, antlers spread wide tangled up with the line, giving it the appearance of a dream catcher. 

Instinctively, Will rose to his feet, meaning to head outside and try to free the entwined mess from the stag's crown.

He felt a hand lightly fall against his wrist, and looked to see where Hannibal had reached out to touch him, even as the stag started to walk back into the black of the forest.

“Will....? ”

His glasses were still up as he glanced up at the man, and all at once he _saw_. There was no mirror, just him, and Hannibal Lecter. 

There was not the Ripper on one side, and the gentleman on the other: they were one and the same, showing different facets of personality as the situation required. 

Yes there was much more to Hannibal that just the serial killer lurking behind his eyes, but equally the Ripper was an inescapable part of him. 

Will swallowed hard, as he looked at the Chesapeake Ripper, and the Ripper looked right back. 

Then, just as his heartbeat had started to reach crescendo, Hannibal lifted his hand free and pulled away, not breaking eye contact but granting a little space. 

He should have returned his glasses, should have found safety in his shield, but the sight of the Ripper no longer scared him.

Will brought himself up tall, and spoke;

“You said you admired me because I saw who you were.... Well guess what, I still see you Hannibal. I see you.”

Hannibal did not flinch at the statement, nor did he seem that perturbed that Will was staring at him, as if to peer into the very core of his being. He calmly, and slowly, opened out his hands and lifted his chin; inviting Will's gaze.

Will frowned, confused. Most people became nervous, or shied away when he cast his eye over them, but Hannibal met his sight with confidence. Perhaps it was that the cannibal had no more secrets to reveal, but Will was not convinced he'd seen the worst that Hannibal had to hide. 

He remembered his first instinct when he had seen the antlers of the stag; a trap, and lifted his hand to the frame of his glasses so that he did not see something he wasn't prepared for. Hannibal shook his head. 

“You do not need them.”

“Oh, don't I? Maybe I don't want to see the dark recesses of your mind.” Will flipped the glasses back over his eyes, Hannibal's expression of mild disappointment coming into sharp focus. 

Hannibal tipped his head, on the cusp of cracking the bones of his vertebrae. “I can understand that, there are parts of my past that are... distasteful, and not to be touched upon lightly.....But I was referring to your spectacles. The glasses make for useful cue, a physical prop for honing your attention, but you cannot believe that those simple lenses have kept you blinkered and blinded?”  
“ You see, just as you have seen for this past year.”

Will paused, and considered that his glasses were not the talisman he had thought them. That he had been unwittingly witnessing the whole of Hannibal, with no protection against any of the Ripper's personality that might have seeped through.

If that had been the case, then Hannibal had had plenty opportunity, and time, to mould Will into whatever he might have wanted, but Will did not think his self had been altered. At least, not directly. 

There had been a gradual acceptance of who Hannibal was, but that did not mean that Will was about to excuse his crimes. He did not feel any less sympathetic towards the victims, nor waver in his believe that removing a life was no trivial thing.

He was still Will Graham.

His hand hovered at the side of his glasses, but he decided to leave them, the weight against the bridge of his nose familiar. “How long have you known?”

“That your 'sight' as it were, is not dependent on your glasses? Since you confessed to not liking eye-contact. Why would you 'see too much' if the glasses interfered?”

It was obvious, now that it had been pointed out, but Will felt a fool for not realising sooner. 

“You have exceptional control over your empathy, to an extent and level of detail I had not thought possible till I had met you. Using your glasses as a way to focus was like using the beam of a torch to illuminate that which you wished to see, but the light of your talent was on, always.  
“I am not sure you could turn it off, even if you wanted to. It is too much an integral part of you.” Hannibal brought his head to centre, “It is a strength, not a weakness Will.”

“Alana Bloom didn't seem to think so.”

“Dr Bloom was sadly misguided when it came to your empathy.”

Still standing, Will folded his arms. “Misguided?”

“She could not see the applications of such a gift... Did not see how it could be used to its fullest potential.”

“What possible use could there be that would be better than trying to find the mad, the bad and the very, very dangerous?”

Hannibal's lips broke open into a smile, as if he had been waiting months for Will to ask such a question. 

“You tell me.”

Will shrugged, “I don't know...”

Hannibal steepled his hands, “I think then, that this is a question you should find your own answer to.”

Will snorted, but was quietly impressed. Throughout his life, he had far too many people weigh in with their views on how he ought to handle his unusual ability, but not one had ever asked _him_ what he thought. 

It was empowering to be given the space to come up with his own response, as well as strangely unselfish of the Doctor, as Will was fairly confident that although he had not said as much, Hannibal definitely had thoughts on how his gift could be used. 

As Will headed to his room to think after bidding Hannibal a 'good evening', he could not deny that he was curious as to what Hannibal saw as the optimal usage of his empathy.


	46. Chapter 46

It was as he looked in on Hannibal as he made lunch, some days later, that he happened upon Hannibal's design.

He had been walking outside, and looking in through the window to the kitchen. Hannibal had been preparing some meat from the freezer, and wore a look of rapture upon his face. It did not matter that he held a piece of person in his hands, the meat did not conjure remorse or guilt. He was pleased with himself, smug, and Will all at once came to the conclusion that Hannibal was extremely self-centred, almost to the exclusion of everything else. 

Hardly ground-breaking revelation, but it clicked together with what Hannibal would regard as 'correct' usage of his empathy.

Will laughed, darkly. 

Verging on megalomania, Hannibal's high opinion of himself was far from humble. Will might have likened it to a god-complex, if he was not so certain that Hannibal would be fully aware of the diagnostic criteria, and have made efforts not to trip over into clinical disorder. 

So, it followed that Hannibal did not desire in Will a mirror, someone to reflect like a two-dimensional copy, but someone who was able fully appreciate him for the genius he saw himself as. He did not want an imitation, but someone capable of acknowledging his intelligence and talent. 

He wanted an admirer.

And who better to 'see' him than an FBI consultant with an empathy disorder? Will had all the forensic understanding to recognise the efforts made at each crime scene, and the ability to read the emotional messages writ in the spilled blood and stolen lives. 

Motivation enough to kidnap said individual, to fulfil whatever egotistical ends Hannibal had in mind. 

Will sighed, and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Fuck's sake Hannibal....” he muttered under his breath. Heaven forfend that he have a normal relationship with a serial killer cannibal. 

The worst of it was that Will _was_ impressed by Hannibal. The confidence, the elegance, even the savage artistry, they were all aspects he could if pressed find admiration for. It did not defend that he had been uprooted from his home, his life, merely to provide Hannibal with an attentive aficionado for his past enterprises, but at least Will finally had an answer for why Hannibal seemed to find him so fascinating.

He started back into the house, interrupting as Hannibal was setting up the dish. Chopped onions and figs, and liver, with springs of rosemary and a glaze of butter, and Hannibal delayed only long enough to ensure that Will had seen the contents before covering the dish with matching lid and sliding it into the oven. 

“It must have been tiresome waiting for someone to connect your two aspects; the sophisticated psychiatrist and the serial killer.” he began. Hannibal shut the oven door with a heavy thud, and straightened his back, raising a brow at Will's apparent choice in conversation.

“Discovery was something I actively avoided.” 

Will folded his arms, “But you planned for it regardless.” Hannibal gave a slow and careful nod, as if hesitant to agree with Will's current tone.

“So I reckon that you were in fact delighted when I uncovered you. You'd been waiting to be recognised, to be acknowledged as responsible for the Ripper's acts, whilst also maintaining Dr Lecter's façade. You wanted someone to see how very clever you had been.”

Hannibal looked thoughtful. “It was something of an occasion. A turning point, for both you and I.”

“You could say that I suppose... “ Will shifted his weighted from one foot to the other, “And when someone, i.e. me, had finally seen, it would have been hard to imagine ruining the moment with death... You'd have wanted to prolong it, preserve it. That's why you took me, as a trophy.....”

“You are more than a mere memento, Will.” 

Lifting his glasses off and folding them into his hand, Will looked up. Even though the edges of his vision seemed less clear, he could still tell that Hannibal was smiling. 

“Yeah, I figured it out... I'm an empath, and thus the perfect witness of your flawless escape from suspicion _and_ detection by the FBI.” Will's tone was sarcastic, mocking Hannibal's vanity. “So should I just stand here now evermore, and bask in your brilliance, oh Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal's smile dropped.

“No need to be rude...” 

“No Hannibal, rude is when you kidnap someone to be some sort of captive audience. I am more than just a host to an empathy disorder. I will not be your fawning fanatic.”

“I do not seek a 'fawning fanatic'....” 

“Then what?”

Hannibal took and deep breath, and rolled his shoulders back, revealing the tightness that had been gathering there.   
“Though I had many acquaintances in Baltimore, none would have called themselves close friends... Indeed, none really knew me, or they might have been less keen to attend my dinner parties...”

Will resisted pointing out that a refusal could risk an person unwittingly ending up on the menu instead.

“You yourself know what it is like to be striving to be something that grates against your actual personality.”

“You are comparing us again. Are you so sure our life experiences are relatable?”

Long fingers folded into one another, and Hannibal brought his hands close to his chest.

“I recall an investigation into the scene of a murder... Not one of mine; some domestic dispute taken to extremes, and the husband thinking that a series of satanic symbols drawn in various viscera would aid him in an insanity plea. I had driven you, as you had been visiting my office when you got the call from Jack. There was hustle and bustle and grim faces, but even then, there were several attempts to draw you into conversation as the scene was cleared. I watched as your colleagues left the room to allow you space, and you were left with the victim.”

“So...?” Will recalled the case, and could not think of why Hannibal had chose to mention it. The diversion seemed distracting from the point he had been trying to make.

“You spend a full hour in there, with a body strewn across the floor, when the true motive and suspect was apparent from first glance. You knew, but did not venture out till Jack was just about to hammer upon the door to hasten your report. You preferred the company of the corpse to your work associates.  
“I understood the sentiment: it rang familiar for me.”

Will remembered, watching his wristwatch counting the seconds and dreading stepping out to complete the investigation. 

“Wait, are you trying to tell me that you just wanted someone you could be yourself around?” 

Hannibal did not nod, but his lack of any contrary gesture told Will that which Hannibal refused to speak aloud. 

“Most people would have got themselves a dog....” he muttered.

“Surely it does not need said that I am not 'most people'.... Besides, I detest dog hair upon my clothes.“

Will laughed, remembering how his adopted pack of strays would frolic around Hannibal's legs whenever he came to visit, covering him in an array of furs of all colours and curls. 

“I guess the slobbering is poor substitute for actual conversation....” 

Hannibal made a noise of agreement, too many of his suits having needed dry cleaned after enthusiastic greetings from the canine collection. 

Hannibal clasped his hands together, and relaxed his pose.   
“Someone will the ability to _see_ is rare, and I will admit, that is what drew me at first to you, but as we got to know each other, I became aware that you are stunning, exceptional and astute. I value your companionship, as I would hope you find mine not too arduous....”  
“But for all this, you still have not supplied _your_ answer for the best use of your empathy.” 

Will paused, and realised that he had been far more curious about Hannibal's answer than his own. 

“I guess I just found yours more interesting.” he confessed. 

Hannibal smiled briefly, pleased, as if that was the best possible reply Will could have given.


	47. Chapter 47

Will let Hannibal have his liver and figs without comment, his own plate featuring soft jammy fruit as well, but with goats cheese, shredded beetroot and snow-pea shoots. 

He did not doubt the source of Hannibal's meat; the care taken with the dish, even going as so far to handle the plate as if finest antique china, betrayed its origins.

He waited till dessert, a glass filled with jellied sparkling wine encrusted with pomegranate seeds that gleamed like gemstones, before he spoke. 

“How many people have you killed Hannibal?”

To follow up his query, causally thrown across the table, he took a bite of his sweet, hmm-ing appreciatively at at luxurious silken feeling of Prosecco sliding across his palate. 

Treating the tally as a light matter was a tactical play, he did not want to inadvertently congratulate Hannibal on his kills, but neither did he want to give the impression that a high number would earn his dismay. He wanted the truth, and figured a straight-forward question was more likely to yield truthful reply.

“Careful.” said Hannibal, his tongue running the length of the inside of his bottom lip, as he scooped a spoonful of dessert for himself, ready to taste. “Those are dangerous words Will.”

Will shrugged. He no longer feared that Hannibal would take sudden grievous offence, no matter how blunt or ill-tempered he might be. He actually had faith that if he did manage to properly insult Hannibal, he'd be given chance to apologise and talk through the matter like adults, rather than be slain in a fit of fury. “More dangerous than a cannibalistic serial killer?” he asked, raising a brow. 

“We shall have to see.” Hannibal crunched pomegranate seeds between his teeth. “Would it please you to know the answer?”

With a shake of the head that dislodged his hair from its half-kemp state to fall over his forehead, Will brought his eyes up, to look at Hannibal expectantly. No answer could 'please' him when it came to the Chesapeake's Rippers victims, but that had never stopped him seeking out unpleasant revelations before. 

Hannibal sighed, “I will keep my silence here, I think.”

It was unusual for Hannibal to chose not to speak on any topic, but given that he regarded his kills with a sense of pride, it was even more unlike him not to take the opportunity to announce his achievements.

Will stared, and then, in a flash of inspiration, lifted his glasses, briefly letting his vision blur and then become clear again as he returned the frames to their place. “Oh. It's not that you don't want to tell me..... You can't. You have lost count.”

Hannibal blinked slowly, impressed, just as Will was taken by surprise at his own ability.

“You are correct. I truly cannot recall the number.”

Will was not sure which he ought to find worse; that Hannibal had killed so many that the exact number of his crimes was unknown, or that the lives he had taken meant so little he had not even bothered to mark them in his memory.

Will was not shocked at the lack of regard, but he had assumed that Hannibal would have been able to at least recount the extent of his efforts to keep the FBI occupied.   
He would have thought that Hannibal would have kept score. 

Eventually, Will decided that he would have to be satisfied with never knowing how many had lost their lives by Hannibal's hand. 

However, both he and Hannibal, had dealt with the grisly topic matter with courtesy and civility, and that granted him confidence for his next line of questioning.  
“I have to ask then: Why? Why kill at all. You don't _need_ it. There is no compulsion; you've already proven that you can stop if you choose to, so why kill at all?”

“Before I answer, what is your opinion, Will Graham?”

“Not entirely sure....” Just as an artist had to be careful when constructing a portrait likeness so as not to offend the subject matter, Will started to tread more carefully with his words, “Boredom maybe? You are extremely intelligent, and it must have been frustrating that you were surrounded by the likes of Chilton and seen to be equal with the common rabble. An outlet, a venting for your disappointment that no other could match you?” Will scratched his chin as he considered; not asking himself why the Ripper killed, but why Dr Lecter, the personification of culture, would seek to snuff out life.  
“You didn't dispose of the bodies, but put them on display, so there is an element of showing-off involved, tripping the line between a taunting and flaunting your cleverness for all to see.... The tableaus were not designed to inspire fear, and the selection too random to serve as a warning to others. They were a celebration for your triumph over that which you deemed unworthy.”

Will glanced to Hannibal, gauging his reactions to aid his understanding. So far he had been making vague guesses, Hannibal's motives hidden behind a placid face devoid of any hint, but Will had not yet been given sign he was completely off track. Hannibal's chin that tipped upwards slightly at the word 'celebration', so Will refocused his inquiry. 

“Celebration is not quite right. Each death was not an event, so much as a natural end to the process, a finished product.” Will frowned, the final piece of the puzzle eluding him. He clenched his jaw in irritation, and swung his head to the side, as if trying to rattle loose the solution he knew to be somewhere inside his skull.

For his part, Hannibal patiently waited. Finishing up his dessert and then watching Will, curious to watch the thought process as it developed. When it seemed Will reached had reached standstill, Hannibal leaned forwards, keen eyes honed in; “Let us try a different tack. You make your own fishing lures, correct? Why? You could just as easily buy them from a shop, or fellow fisherman.”

Will ignored that Hannibal has adopted his psychiatrist voice, all soft edges and calm pace, and obediently allowed his thoughts to turn inward. 

“It's enjoyable to make them for yourself.” He said, envisioning winding wire and feather round a sharp hook, “Yes it takes time, and effort, and you don't really save that much money getting hold of all the supplies, but its an achievement when you have finished. Nice to do something with your hands...” He looked up at Hannibal, and grinned, “You don't mean to tell me you took up murder as a hobby to while away the hours? Jeez, did you consider stamp collecting?”

“You digress.” Hannibal pointed out, testily, although with no true menace. Merely keen to see the conversation through to its conclusion. 

“OK, OK... I like making the lures. They are pleasing to the eye, and there is a certain amount of creativity to mix the different trails and aspects to entice the right kind of fish. But no pressure, you know? No-one really sees lures; fishing is not a social sport... so there was no-one to judge. It either worked, or it didn't, and sometimes the lure had nothing to do with your success in catching a fish. To be honest, mine were not really any more effective at catching fish than some cheap piece of shop-bought plastic, but the fact it was mine, my hand that made it, my design.... It just felt more complete when I landed a catch.”

“So it is not the basic need to eat that motivates you, but the act itself?”

His knuckles blanched as Will formed his hands into fists. “You seem intent on painting an impression of fishing in the same swath of colours as your murders. There is a monumental difference between going out to a river to catch a trout, and stalking down and slaughtering a helpless waiter who sloped your soup a little....”

“I am merely trying to illustrate a point, through activities you are familiar with...”

“Bullshit.” Will brought up a single finger, and aimed it squarely at Hannibal's waxwork face. “You are pulling up my hobbies when discussing your motives for murder so that I start to draw connections.... Both could be considered hunting for sport, when nutrition is not the goal but can be a rewarding consequence regardless....”

“Exactly.” Hannibal interrupted, “It is not the actual catch that makes fishing worthwhile, but the chase. If it were to only fulfil a basic need like sustenance, it would need no explanation; the motive would be clear. I suggest that both fishing, and my own.... artistic forays... serve to meet a more cognisant need.”

“I note that you are still mentioning my fishing and your kills in the same breath....”   
Will had also noted, however, that Hannibal's tone when discussing fishing seemed oddly condescending, while when he spoke of his own crimes there was definite pride in his voice. There may have been coincidental comparisons, but there was no doubt as to which Hannibal found the more advanced activity.   
Will decided that he'd stop trying to work out what Hannibal was trying to convey without words, and instead listen to what he was actually saying. 

“A more cognisant need.... Are you talking about Maslow's hierarchy of needs? The pyramid with basic physical necessities such as food and sleep are at the bottom most rung, and as you gradually meet each demand you can seek out more intangible needs like companionship and self-worth?”

Hannibal simply tipped his head, urging Will to follow through on this new line of thinking.

“So the murders don't serve to actually feed you, they don't protect you or make you safe....” Will started, beginning at the bottom most rung and working his way up, “They certainly don't aid you to belong to a group or community. There is an element of esteem and achievement you pull from each one, but if that was what you sought you'd have been publishing academic papers for your peers instead of stringing up victims for the gore-fanatics....”

Will tried to remember what came next up Maslow's chart. 

“Learning and exploring is next, but that doesn't fit.... You know what makes a human tick, so you learn nothing new by stopping the process.... The next point is aesthetics, well, you certainly have style and flare... though perhaps not everyone shares your sense of beauty in the desecration of corpses...”

“... and the last is self-actualisation. Being able to express oneself to the full....” Hannibal finished, a flicker of smugness twinkling in his eyes.

The metronome swung, and the pieces clicked into place, allowing Will to observe the complete picture. 

“You see the murders as self-expression; the pinnacle of Maslow's pyramid? Of course you do, no doubt they are also proof of your superiority over your fellow man.”

“Your words, not mine.” Hannibal smiled. Despite himself, Will found the corners of his mouth curled upwards.

“Anyone ever tell you that you are beyond conceited?”

“Not to my face....”

“No... I can't imagine anyone would dare.” The image itself was near laughable, Hannibal in his prim and proper suits, being called out as a vain peacock. 

“You just did.”

Will chuckled, but only after checking that Hannibal was similarly amused, and not about to throw an impressive strop. 

“I guess I did... hmm. My blunt candour and burnt omelettes must be why you keep me around.”

“That, amongst other things.” Hannibal replied, his smile slipping from one to be shared to something more private. Something hungry, but held in check by manners. 

Will took the time to enjoy his achievement. Not only had he finally fathomed the Chesapeake Ripper's MO, but he also felt able to speak his mind. There was no need to watch his words, to be careful not to speak too much truth, for fear of offending or alienating others from his already meagre circle of associates. He did not even worry that his words might trigger a resurgence of the Ripper in his immediate vicinity. 

It was like a weight had been lifted from his tongue, a constant pressure he had not realised he was under till it was gone.

It tasted like freedom.


	48. Chapter 48

In the small hours of the night, Will found himself stirring slowly awake. 

It took him time to realise the cause of his slumber's interruption, and he grabbed for his glasses as he unwound the bedsheets from his legs.

Outside, he heard steady footfalls. Heavy, the ground rendered brittle by autumn's sharp cold, making the woodbark crunch and crackle underfoot.

Will struggled upright, expecting to see cloven hooves carrying the feathered stag across the ground on a secretive nightly patrol.

What he saw however, walked on two legs, not four. 

It was Hannibal, still dressed as he had been for dinner, out in front of the house. He was walking with an odd gait, and only as the sleep cleared from Will's eyes and head could he see that the reason Hannibal was placing his steps so audibly was so that his stamping feet might dissuade Rover from getting caught underfoot.

Will got up, and pulled on a thick shirt over his nightclothes, and jammed his feet inside his shoes, without bothered with socks, or tying the laces. He headed out the door, meaning to find out why Hannibal was out in the middle of the night with his raccoon.

He opened the door, to find Hannibal flicking a piece of something wet and shapeless out onto the grass. Rover fell upon the morsel, as Hannibal turned to watch Will make his way over.

There was silence, as Hannibal allowed Will to take in the scene.

Hannibal had a knife in his hand. Not a sharp bladed one, but something he might have used to spread butter across bread. In his other hand, he held a plate, with uneven cuts of pungent offal. 

Recalling the meal Hannibal had enjoyed earlier, Will was filled with a sense of grim understanding. 

“Hannibal. Are you feeding my raccoon the meat of _people_?”

Looking down at the plate, Hannibal raised a brow, as if surprised. “It would appear so.”

A loud exhale through Will's gritted teeth made Rover start, and glance up at the two humans, torn between finishing the current lump of liver and backing off to a safer distance. She elected to stay, but hurried to gobble down the rest of the meat.

Will was annoyed. Not disgusted, nor angry, annoyed. 

Annoyed that Hannibal had probably been feeding Rover in secret for months, and he had only now found out. Annoyed that Hannibal had kept it from him, when Rover was supposed to be _his_ companion. Annoyed that Hannibal had dragged Rover into his grisly eating habits, when the animal could not have known the source of the meat and the moral mess that consuming it entailed.

For his part, Hannibal stayed quiet, not ashamed in the slightest of his actions, but at least acknowledging that Will would not be best pleased. However, the lack of shouting and swearing seemed to intrigue him, as it did not seem only for the raccoon's benefit that Will was refraining from starting up a screaming match.

“Hannibal Lecter.... I expected better of you.” Will's voice was heavy, weighted, the meter controlled and the tone carefully measured that his words were delivered as a statement, and not inviting reply or retort.

Hannibal straightened, and took a single step closer to Will, making the other fully aware of the difference in height.

“These cuts were unfit for human consumption. Would you rather I discard them like unwanted vegetable peelings? A rubbish bin is hardly a fitting resting place, should you consider such things of import.”  
Hannibal gestured to the raccoon, who had chewed down the last bite, and was looking up, black eyes shining in the porch-light. “This way is less wasteful. Your beast gains sustenance that would otherwise be left to rot.”

He took the last step, bringing him to Will's side, and held out the plate towards him.  
“Besides....” he added, in a soft and seductive whisper, “... she likes it.”

Will recognised exactly what Hannibal was doing. The use of the word 'she', designed to appeal to Will's closeness to the animal, and referring to her enjoyment as tribute to the way Will had spoiled his dogs back in Wolf Trap, often giving them treats that they should not have been permitted.

He grabbed the plate, irked that Hannibal was so brazenly trying to manipulate him, and was about to turn on his heel and throw the rest of the liver in the trash, thinking that the unfortunate victim would just have to be satisfied with the bin-bag as a tomb, when Rover padded forwards.

Hannibal backed away, leaving Will with the plate, and Rover's keen eyes fixed upon the china. She had never come so close, despite Will's best efforts, and as she came up to stand by his feet, he could see the details of her fur and her sharp little teeth.

He swallowed, and (not looking too closely at what he was doing), speared a piece of meat on the tip of the knife, and bent slowly, holding it out for the raccoon. Rover did not hesitate in closing her maw round the offering, and gnawed greedily, pulling it from the knife. When finished, she looked at Will, licking her jaws and hopeful for more. 

Will lowered himself to a crouch, and started to feed Rover the rest of the plate. As the pieces got smaller and smaller, the knife was less useful, too blunt and unwieldy to suit the task. He soon put down the knife, and used his fingers to pick up the slippery meat and hold it out to the raccoon. She was gentle in accepting the food, and Will started to smile as he felt her breath against his hand. 

He was aware that Hannibal was watching, but he was too much delighted at the new level of trust growing between himself and Rover to pay the man much mind. 

The plate was soon finished, and even though Will let Rover lick the last of the juices from the china, she waited, seeing if these humans would magically conjure more food. 

Will grinned at her optimism, and rose to stand. This, finally, seemed to signify that feeding time was over, and Rover grudgingly started back to the woodlands, not looking back but at an easy, unhurried pace.

He looked to Hannibal, who was eyeing the china and knife.

“Don't fret. I'll put them aside, mark them the same as the others. You'll not have to share your dinnerware with a raccoon.”

“Good.” Hannibal said simply, and turned his attention to where Will was standing, his fingers stained with human remains. 

Will started to laugh, soft and breathy. From Hannibal's viewpoint, feeding a lowly raccoon the meat was insult to injury, and now he himself was accomplice to the act.

He didn't find that the thought chilled him. Hannibal might have pulled perverse pleasure in further disgracing those he had dispatched, but he was of the opinion that the dead did not care, one way or the other. Their story was ended, and any epilogue of little consequence.

He had seen many victims, in various flavours of demise, and found that in death they were quiet. Dead people did not emote, and his empathy could not extend past the grave. The one exception was the case of Gareth Jacob Hobbs, and even then he presented as a flat, emotionless corpse; dead in the eyes. 

Will almost preferred Gareth, direct and to the point of conveying guilt and accusation, without a mess of emotions muddling the message.

So what then, of the living? Those family and friends of the victims entombed within Hannibal's freezer. Even without meeting them, Will could imagine the sinking depths of their sadness. They would surely grieve over the disappearances of those Hannibal had taken.

Despite this, and even though cannibalism was taboo, and a crime, those left still alive would be blissfully ignorant of the true fate of their loved ones. They had no way of knowing that Rover (and Hannibal) dined upon forbidden flesh, and so would be protected from any feelings of revolt and disgust. 

He trusted that Hannibal was adhering to his pledge not to make any fresh kills, so there was no new suffering that would be brought about. There was little to be done for the dead; Will could not undo their murder. He also could not prevent Hannibal from indulging on what he had harvested, and from what he had learnt about cooking, knew that there was almost certain to be offcuts that Hannibal would not see fit to eat himself.

Will tipped his head to the side, as he failed to find a reason to deny the raccoon what would otherwise be wasted.

He sighed softly, as he came to the realisation that he would willingly feed Rover again, should Hannibal supply more meat. 

They started back to the house, no words needed, Hannibal first, and Will following close behind.

There was no subtly in Hannibal's smile, highly satisfied at the outcome of the night's events.


	49. Chapter 49

In the days that followed, Will noticed a drastic increase in the number of trips Hannibal made to the freezer. Once, sometimes even twice a week, Hannibal would take some piece of person out from the cold storage, and cook it up. 

He could not escape the fact that he was now part of the ritual, as Hannibal always made sure to leave some of the meat for him to feed to Rover. The cannibal seemed intent on cementing Will's participation through practice, and though Will felt a little uneasy at this new development, he did not protest. 

Rover ate well, greedily devouring the meat will brought out for her, eating from his hands. Will enjoyed the closeness the macabre morsels granted him with his raccoon, and had ceased to fret about where the meat had come from. 

He had reached peace with himself that those who were dead could not care one way or another what happened to their remains, and in truth, it was something of a novelty to see Hannibal so opaquely happy. 

The man was near giddy, gleeful, as a way was finally found for Will to share in his macabre hobby. 

Each plate was presented with extravagant garnish and flare; golden primrose petals, sprigs of redcurrants, black onion seed and on one occasion, sheets of musical notation cut and curled into florets. 

That particular dish; a layered stack of smoked meat, with wilted kale and red cabbage and thinly sliced potatoes, served with a pale brandy sauce, was plated up to a piece of music Hannibal had set up beforehand. 

Will ate his own meat-free version, while at the same time his curiosity ate at him. Eventually, he looked up, and asked the significance of the music to this particular meal.

“He sang sourly.” 

All at once, Will saw that Hannibal had set up a new tableau, for his eyes only. Rendered in miniature, from the flesh of the offending personage, Hannibal had laid out the scene, mocking and cruel. The man had apparently had the audacity to mar one of Hannibal's favourite choral pieces, and as penance had been turned into meat. 

Will guessed that the sweetness of the cabbage, juxtaposed with the sour bite of kale, was also layered with meaning, but he did not have the palate nor knowledge of the foodstuffs to properly understand Hannibal's message. It did not matter, he did not need to decode the cannibal, nor fathom out his motives, when the man was in front of him, blithely chewing on his victim. 

Will gave Hannibal an amused shrug, and carried on eating, the music in the background swelling to triumphant crescendo.

***************

Too soon, the mood in the house shifted. Hannibal lost his good humour, and seemed sullen and subdued.

Will paced with nervous energy, wondering at the cause. 

It came something of a relief when Hannibal, voice weighted down with occasion, called him through to the dining room.

On his side was a dish of thick mushroom pate, grey and smooth. On Hannibal's a similar dish with a similar dish, but filled with pate with a pinkish tinge. In the middle on the table was a loaf of freshly baked sour-dough, ready to be sliced. 

It was one of the most simple meals Will had ever seen Hannibal lay out. His interest peaked, he took a seat.

Hannibal looked up, and gestured to the bowl of pate, and pushed a smaller bowl, with a lump of pate across that Will could see. Hannibal's painted markings, striped in black like her tail, made it clear that the dish was Rover's.

“This is the last. The freezer is now empty.” he explained, as he folded his hands into his lap.

“Oh.” Will replied, a little taken aback. He recognised the admission as a true tribute of trust. Hannibal could have kept the state of the freezer's status from him, and been able to 'top up' on the sly, and Will would have been none the wiser. The direct report on the void was a way to let Will know that he had not only been honest when he agreed to not kill anyone more, but also that Hannibal fully intended to continue to adhere to his promise. 

It was a grand gesture of respect, and Will was touched.

“What will you do now?” 

“I shall make do with the fare from our not-so-local butcher. He usually has well-reared pork in stock, and his beef is properly hung and matured. His lamb could stand to be better quality, but I suspect he does not have a farmstead nearby to supply him, so all his lamb degrades during transit.” 

Hannibal tipped his head, and brought his eyes up to meet with Will's. His gaze was flighty, nervous, a strange reversal of their usual roles. 

“I could however, make the trip back to Baltimore... I could bring back someone to serve us both...”  
His voice dipped low, “You could have the chance to inform Jack of your findings regarding the Ripper, and then tell him what you truly think of him. We could rip out Freddy Lound's tongue from her foul mouth, and crush it betwixt the panels of her laptop.”

Swallowing hard on hearing his own suggestion voiced as an actual plan of action, Will licked his lips; his mouth dry. 

“I could... I could let Alana know how wrong she was about me...” he said, his voice a hushed whisper. 

“...yes...” Hannibal's voice was breathy. 

A long, heated moment, ripe with the potential for disaster and destruction, hung between them. It would have been so easy for Will to reach, and pull it free, letting loose the Ripper to wreak retribution upon his behalf. 

Instead, he reached for Hannibal. 

He had to reach across the table, but his fingers clasped Hannibal's hand, outstretched to close the distance between them. 

“Please don't.” he said, simply.

Chestnut eyes swiveled down to look upon where they touched, and then back up at Will's face. He sighed, a little disappointed, but with a air of resignation that he would respect Will's request.

“It will be as you wish. I only thought to offer the possibility; a form of closure ...”

“... and I am grateful you asked first.” 

Will did not dare think about what might have occurred should he have been presented with a face from his past; all consequences and morality far from where he now resided.

Hannibal patted Will's hand, as if to remind him of its whereabouts, as it rested against his own. When Will did not move to remove it, he let his own fall across the knuckles, warming them under his fingers.


	50. Chapter 50

Several night later, Will could not sleep. There was no particular image or thought that caused him distress enough to keep the lull of night from him, but he was restless all the same. 

He sighed, and looked out the window, wondering if Rover could be tempted into keeping him company with a piece of cheese. She had not yet realised, or perhaps didn't care, that the source of her meat had changed, but Will was ever hopeful that he might garter the same attention with something vegetarian. So far he had not succeeded, as Rover showed clear preference for flesh. 

Outside, lit only by the glow of the moon, was the raven-stag. It seemed to be watching him, no, not watching.... waiting. 

Carefully, Will dressed, this time making sure to dress appropriately for the winter weather. He trusted that after so many years of watching him from the shadows, the stag would surely wait for him. 

He did not use the porch-light as he passed, understanding that the creature preferred the dark.

He walked forwards slowly, the beast's head facing him, and making no move to flee. It showed no signs of fear as he came closer, but stood its ground and let the tangled web of fishing line still caught up in its antler catch brief beams of moonlight, in time with its breath. 

Will too, was not afraid. He should be, seeing this massive black creature, a fully fledged shadowy omen, but while others might have feared such a sight, but he did not. 

He came to stand before it, its antlers towering over him, its eyeline even with his own.

He lifted a hand, fingers open and with a slight tremor of nervousness, as he made a gesture to try and pull the fishing line free from it's horned crown.

Suddenly, the beast flinched its head and snorted, a twitch running down the length of its spine, making its feathers quiver. It shot him with a disapproving eye, and Will lowered his hands, placating, ready to accept the beast as it was.

More slowly, Will reached out to stroke the stag.

It stayed still, and allowed his touch. It felt like the ghost of silk under his fingers, and though he could see the detail of its fur and feathers and how they followed the contours of its hide, it was like trying to grasp smoke.

His hand was still lifted, as he heard the porch door open and shut behind him. He did not turn, but could hear as Hannibal cleared his throat, making him aware of his presence so as not to startle.

“Will?” his voice was soft, gentle. “Will, can you hear me?”

Will did not turn, but spoke out to show that he was not sleepwalking; “I can.”

“What are you doing out here? It is cold, and you have no coat.”

Will looked at the stag, and for the first time contemplated explaining to Hannibal that he was standing before a huge black feathered stag; the same creature that he had been seeing for years.

It was not embarrassment that held him from admitting the truth, but the note of worry he had heard in Hannibal's voice. He did not want to give the man any more cause for concern. 

He lifted his head upwards. “It was a clear night, and I took a sudden fancy to see the stars. I'll be just a moment more, then I'll come back inside.”

He could not see if Hannibal believed him or not, his focus entirely on the beast, hoping that it would accept that Will had chosen to keep it a secret yet again.

Rather than taking offence that Will had lied, the stag lifted its own head, and looked upon the wash of stars in the sky above them. 

“All right then.” said Hannibal, and Will heard the door open and shut again, and footsteps echo from inside the house. He did not sound happy that Will was outside in the night, but he apparently was resigned to let Will do as he wished.

Will looked at the stag, who brought its head back to face him. He was struck by the intensity of its gaze, as if it was trying to communicate something of import. Its eyes were deep, and black, and Will found that without a human face to read he was he failing to grasp what it was trying to tell him.

Dropping his hands, he closed his eyes, hoping that without the distraction of being stared at he might gain better understanding. He could feel the shift of air, as the stag started to circle round behind him, its pace slow and steady. 

He was not afraid that with his back turned the beast might do him harm, and so kept his eyes firmly shut as the stag came to rest behind him. He did not move, but felt something warm against his shoulders, a heavy weight, comforting.

He turned, and opened his eyes. 

The stag was nowhere to be seen, but before him stood Hannibal, placing a blanket over his shoulders. 

“If you insist on midnight excursions, I thought that you might benefit from being better prepared.” 

“Thanks, it's appreciated.” Will tugged the blanket over his shoulders and gripped it tightly round his neck. He twisted round, looking out to the forest line, hoping to see where the stag had walked off to. When all he could pick out were vague shadows, he turned back to see that Hannibal wore a look of devastation.

Will blinked, confused, Hannibal's reaction taking him by surprise. 

Quickly, he pulled himself into analytical mode to understand the reason for Hannibal's distress. 

He was outside, without warning, and had at first been thought to be sleep-walking. He had instead claimed to be star-gazing. When Hannibal had seen him however, he was near the tree line, fully dressed, and not looking upwards. 

He must have thought Will was making another attempt to escape, this time under cover of night. The man seemed deeply saddened by his misunderstanding, as though he had hoped they had moved past this point. 

It was then that Will saw that it was Hannibal that was poorly dressed for being outside, clad only in the barest of clothes as the cold air made each breath visible. It did not seem intentional that Hannibal would have chosen such garments, but rather that he had rushed out so that he did not miss Will. 

“You will be getting cold; here.”

Will swept the blanket round from his shoulders and held it out, seeing that Hannibal was more in need of its warmth. The other made no move to accept, though he held himself stiff, his arms and leg close to his body to preserve what little heat he could. 

Willing to forsake his own comfort, so that if Will did decide to head out into the dark, he'd not suffer for lack of extra layers. Hannibal seemed to be making no move to stop him, seeking instead to minimise the damage another long trek outside without a coat would cause.

And quiet, as if unsure that any words uttered would only hasten Will's departure. 

Will too, found himself lost for words, unable to find a way to reassure Hannibal that he had not been intending an escape that did not sound like a lie, conjured up on account of being caught in the act.

Eventually, he took a step towards Hannibal, and away from the edge of the forest. 

“It is a nice night, but too cold to stay out long. We should head in, both of us, before one of us catches a chill.” 

He folded the blanket, to show that it would not be needed, and started towards the house. 

Hannibal did not seem entirely convinced, but joined him as he sat in front of the fireplace, the embers extinguished and cold. Hannibal sat with his back straight and not curled into the leather back of the chair, ready to move at a moment's notice. 

Will was keen to dissipate the tension; it was started to make him feel unsettled in himself, which would hardly help matters.   
“As it seems sleep eludes us both, shall I fetch us a nightcap? Or a pot of herbal tea perhaps?”

“If you wish.”

Will could feel Hannibal watching him as he went through and filled the kettle. He chose a honey and chamomile tea blend, something soothing and sweet, and picked out Hannibal's preferred cups and saucers. Normally he did not bother with the china, finding it delicate and unable to shake the fear it might break apart in his hands, and saucers to him just seemed only to increase the number of dishes that needed washing, they would serve well in his efforts to cultivate a calming atmosphere. 

When he brought through the tray, and was about to pour the tea, Hannibal held up a hand to stop him.  
“Wait. Let it brew a moment more.”

With a nod, Will sat down. He crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap, giving every impression that he was content to stay, and not rush headlong out the door. Despite this, Hannibal remained poised.

“Very well, there is hardly the pressure of time here.” he said, taking in the quiet of the night, and the comfort of their surroundings. Indeed, if there was a perfect place to learn patience, it was in the homestead where the outside world could not intrude.

Something in Hannibal's stance relaxed slightly, only to suddenly return as Will's hand went to the blanket, smoothing out the surface of the soft, thick wool. Will licked his bottom lip, irritated at his mistake. 

“It was thoughtful for you to bring this out, “ he started, “but not necessary. I did not intend to be out long.”

Hannibal's eyes scanned down him and the clothes he wore; carefully dressed for the outdoors as much as his limited wardrobe could allow, and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“So you say.” Hannibal's voice had become clipped and overly civil, the same voice he had used when making small talk with those he'd rather not associate with. It hurt Will to hear him sound so.... distant. 

“...really.” he said weakly, aware of how flimsy his words must have seemed when compared to his attire. He felt like a larger effort would be needed to reassure Hannibal.

Scowling that with Hannibal assuming his full defence, no sudden flash of genius seemed liable to spring from the situation, Will used the side of his shoe to rub against the tracking band around his ankle. It was a subtle gesture, meant to remind Hannibal that escape was next to impossible.

Not just impossible, but also unattractive as a future course. There was no home for him back in Wolf Trap, he did not think he could face those he thought he had known, but found their faith in him so lacking. 

Leaving, or trying to, would mean forgoing long evenings by the fireplace, and his own private fishing hole, and Rover and meals that would rival any restaurants'.... and Hannibal. 

Not Hannibal as he was then, aloof and guarded, but the man who would grudgingly allow him to provide a raccoon with a gourmet diet, and curtail his murderous activities for sake of a promise. The man who would smile simply out of the pleasure of his company.

The man who Will was startled to learn he did not wish to see upset, not for fear of what it might mean for his safety, but because he cared.

It felt real, not some empathic echo, but real concern, pulled from his own self, rather than borrowed from his surroundings. Raw, and wild, and a little frightening, but if Supernatural Black Stags could not scare him off, he'd not let such a trivial thing as feelings for a serial killer unnerve him. 

Will bent, and started to yank his shoes from his feet. He held up the left one, and presented it towards Hannibal.

“Here. Keep the shoes with the coat, so you know I won't try to leave.”

It was not the clumps of dirt flaking off from the sole of the shoe onto the hardwood floors that cause Hannibal's lips to curl down in distaste. No, it was that he had no intention of imposing further restrictions on an endeavour doomed to fail; it was not that Will could possibly manage to get away, it was that he had, to Hannibal's mind, tried to. 

“Do not be ridiculous, I will not take your shoes.”

Will sighed, that he could not seem to convince Hannibal of his honest desire to stay. He let the shoe drop to the floor, where it thudded loudly.   
“What then, can I possibly offer to reassure you?”

There was a pause, while the herbal tea steeped, and Hannibal's eyes turned towards Will's.

“Your word would suffice.”

Will thought of the freezer laying empty in the garage, a past pledge made and maintained, and when called upon to make a promise of his own, Will did not hesitate.  
“I promise I have no intention towards escape. In fact, I don't even have any plans... not anymore.” 

All thoughts of digging ankle-breaker pitfalls out in the forest, or using a length of fishing line to strangle his kidnapper had long since been discarded. His comfortable environment was poor catalyst for such plots.

“So I guess you are stuck with me...”

Hannibal's expression, which had been drawn tight like a shield, dropped in an instant, and Hannibal's face was transformed. Open wonder stole away his years and made him seem much younger, and Will suddenly found his hand wrapped up in both of Hannibals' as the man grasped him in gratitude.

Will was not used to being a source of happiness; his words too much like the dread cry of a crow that spoke of ill-omens and woeful tidings. He had had colleagues, and some have even made effort to get to know him, but their relationship was far from warm and welcoming. His defences were much too prickly to allow anyone too close. When out at gatherings, he would be congratulated for attending, as if simply being able to stand the crowds was the height of his social ability. 

Seeing Hannibal so utterly pleased to have his promise made him wonder why he had not declared his lack of interest in further escape attempts sooner. 

He swallowed, nervously feeling skin upon skin, but not yet daring to try and pull away.

In truth, it was a relief to see that Hannibal no longer held to the belief that Will would try to depart, and so he let the heat from the killer's hands seep into his flesh and warm his blood. 

The tea, over-brewed and surplus to requirement, cooled as a different type of heat sparked off within Will's hands. 

He wondered what Hannibal's skin would feel like under his fingers, whether his hair would be as soft as it looked. 

He felt his heart start to pound, and felt sure that Hannibal would be able to mark his increased pulse rate through the contact between them. He gave a short cough, and Hannibal dutifully released his hand, but not before his mouth twitched into an amused smirk. 

As if it was inevitable that Will's thoughts would eventually stray into the territory of arousal.

 

**************************

When they each departed to their separate bedrooms, sleep was not what Will sought in the quiet of his own room. Instead, he sat back on the bed, fully clothed, and let his mind finally turn to thoughts he had been trying to ignore.

He had come to care for Hannibal, and unlikely as it seemed, it was evident that the killer cared for him in return. Perhaps care was too weak a word, for the intensity behind chestnut eyes shone with affection nearing obsession. 

He was used to such extremes, his talent often attracting an interest that made Chilton's clumsy questioning seem almost complimentary in comparison. People would be fascinated by his empathy, though never stretching to consider his own self. Jack had seen him as a tool, and used him as such, pushing him to work past his endurance. Bloom had seen him as a broken case study, something to be fixed. 

Hannibal however, saw him as a person, more than that, someone held in high-regard. Given what used to happen to those who had failed to earn Hannibal's respect, Will found the compliment to his personality far more meaningful. 

Conversations with Hannibal were complicated, and at times exhausting, but it didn't seem to matter whether he was griping about his kidnapping, or complimenting the food, Hannibal _listened_. More often than not, he seemed able to pick apart what lay underneath Will's speech, and pry out the underpinning thoughts he had not recognised himself. 

It seemed at times Hannibal knew Will better than he knew himself, and despite this, had not shied from him. He had invited his stare, and allowed him to speak his mind.

It was a pleasant sensation, to be wanted for who he was, weirdness and all, without pretence. 

With Hannibal, he finally had the chance to be selfish, and be just himself. 

That was his answer to the question of how he could use his empathy. 

He could be happy. 

Of course, happiness was a elusive concept, and never as simple as the word suggested. What might make him happy would change day to day, but here with Hannibal, he had the chance to explore what he wanted, without the pressures of others clouding his thoughts.

Save for Hannibal's own presence.

It was hard to tell his own desires, he was too much entwined with Hannibal, and the man's obvious arousal building behind calm smiles and heated gaze. He could not tell whether the growing thoughts of lust for the cannibal came from him, or were drawn from the environment, seeped in Hannibal's attraction and want. 

It did not matter, not really, as Will found he did not wish to fight. It seemed too much effort to deny the slow shift in their standing with each other, and pointless, given that Hannibal would never give up on wanting more.

He would respect Will boundaries should Will state them, but the man had habit of slipping past defences, till his words wound under Will's skin.

Hannibal would eventually get his way, as he did with everything he set his mind to, and in truth Will found he was not objectionable to the idea of Hannibal's hands on his body, and his intense focus targeted upon him. More akin to worship than sex, but cardinal all the same, and raw and real and wonderful.

Inevitable then, that Will would find himself in Hannibal's bed, but at least he could come to make the decision for himself, and chose that he would submit.

He had no fears that their tryst would be short-lived, a flurry of passion that when spent would turn stagnant and stale. Each of them was too complex for their relationship ever to be dull.

However, there lay one last consternation yet he had of the cannibal; the consumption of human flesh. 

His personal belief was that the dead did not care one way of the other. Eating their meat was not respectful, but it would not change the fact that they were dead. The result, taboo as it was, was that he could potentially stomach the idea of eating part of a person. After all he had in the past, albeit unwittingly, and found the taste exceptional. 

The living however, were of more concern. Not only the source of the meat, that would suffer their life coming to abrupt halt, all their hopes and dreams suddenly cut short, but those around them, the pain of loss, the sadness that would stem from the removal of someone from their social circles. 

He tries to block out the feeling, a surge of empathy causing him to grieve over a hypothetical victim. It was unpleasant, almost to the point of pain, and in desperation he tried to shift the focus, pushing outwards rather than allowing the bout of empathy to spiral into his own head.

He could see, instead, the ability to make someone fearful as he closed in, and the intoxicating power that would bring. To hold another's heartbeat in his hand, to be able to command the breath to stop at his whim. To take on the role of the killer for himself, rather than be an echo of a part already played. 

The notion was tantalising, like a shiny new toy, and he was fascinated by it. 

He would be able to see the fear first-hand, and witness the terror in someone's eyes fade as they turned glassy. Moreover, before their blood ceased to ebb, he would be able to see their reaction, as they saw themselves become nothing more than meat, reduced to food. 

He swallowed, and realised that his trousers were tight, as his dick filled out, thickening with thoughts of knives and blood and consumption. This, he knew, was his own doing, as Hannibal had never shown any signs of his pleasure from the eating of human flesh being so perverse.

Rather than attempt to ignore the thoughts, or push them aside as abnormal and wrong, Will let the scene play out in his mind. Someone still breathing, sat at the table, watching with wide eyes as their body was cut and cooked. 

The knife would be sharp, the blade honed. The touch of metal upon flesh would be cold, and then, only when the skin started to spilt apart would there be pain. And blood, red, spilling from the wound, painting the harm in vivid colour.

As the knife severed a section of flesh, hurt would be replaced by disbelief as the meat was removed, no longer part of the body but instead crucial part of a meal. 

Blood would continue to ebb, and time would be short, so the actual cooking would have to be done at the table. Hannibal had a generator, and supplies for if the power were to fail, as well as a camping stove and gas canisters in the garage. He would tolerate, Will felt, the harsh smell of gas in order to cook the meal in front of the 'donor'. 

Sizzling, the flesh browning in the heat, strands of muscle and tissue warped by fire, till near unrecognisable. The piece of flesh would curl, and shrink, till it could no longer be replaced, the jigsaw piece out of shape to the hole left behind. 

The meal would need little in the way of seasoning, and served with a simple loaf of bread, perhaps even forsaking salt. Any tears that might spring up at the meal was plated up would have to suffice. 

It was at the thought of Hannibal's throat bobbing as he swallowed down the meat that caused Will to press a hand across his dick, and feel it pulse with want. Ownership of the meat passing by way of lips and teeth, a morbid parody of a kiss. 

Rather than make a mess of the sheets he planned to use very shortly, he took himself to the bathroom, and with only the barest tug and pull against his flesh, reached climax. As he used a handful of tissue to wipe himself clean, he sighed happily, his body awash with release, not only from ejaculation, but also as he found his concordance regarding Hannibal and his eating habits. Like a knot had been pulled loose, his mind felt at peace.

His footsteps back to bed were light, as he shed clothes and pulled covers over himself, settling down for sleep.

Hannibal would no doubt be delighted at his new found attitude. He might strive for patience, but Will knew that it would only be a matter of time before Hannibal put his acceptance to the test. 

Still, however much he has been influenced by his time with Hannibal, he did not think he had it within himself to actually be responsible for the ending of another's life. 

Luckily, as the house guest of a cannibal serial killer, he did not have to.

**************

“Hannibal?”

“Yes Will?”

“Do I have your trust?”

A slow breath, and then, hesitant but fearing that to do anything other that to dip his head would shatter what trust he could be sure of, Hannibal nodded.

“Then I would ask that you leave the garage door open for the next few days. I have a surprise planned for you.”

The expression that passed over Hannibal's face was one of uncertainty, but also a spark of curiosity as to what Will could be planning.

He did not say anything more, but after lunch, Will found the keypad to the garage dim and dead, and that the door opened easily at his touch. 

In effort to make the surprise just that, Will did not do anything that night, or the next. He did however, note that Hannibal's eyes seemed deeper set, and he guessed that the man was having trouble sleeping. The day-to-day routine carried on as normal. Slowly, Hannibal's tension started to subside, either through exhaustion securing sleep or acceptance, Will could not tell. 

The darkness to his eyes however, remained.

True to his word, the garage door remained unbarred, and though their finer nuances of their relationship were tested as Hannibal fought to trust so openly, he allowed Will this opportunity to show that his faith was not misplaced. 

Hannibal did however, in the privacy of his own bedroom, check the range of the tracking device, and carefully calculate how many miles the truck could journey on the gas currently in the tank.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: gore and cannibalism and a dark ending to this story.   
>  See the end notes for more details if you are concerned.

Nearly a full week later, Hannibal awoke suddenly, a dream of an empty house and broken promises shivering in his blood.

He grit his teeth, already impatient for such nightmares to pass. The theme had been frequent of late, and did little to reassure him that his Will would not steal away into the night now that he had the opportunity.

He tried, desperately, to grant Will the benefit of his doubt, but he was tainted by a lifetime of bitter experience.

Trust did not come easily to him, even less so when he had such high hopes for Will. Faith in others was so often rewarded with crushing disappointment, and he found the idea of extending his trust where it could be shattered uncomfortable. He wanted dearly to revoke it, and bring it out of striking range. 

However, if he wanted to maintain the closeness he had found with the Empath, he knew that he had to take such risk. Will was worth the test to his trust.

It did not mean, however, that he had to like it.

Fractured sleep cycles, and a near constant state of trepidation hung over Hannibal, as he constantly expected to find that his houseguest had taken wing and fled, never to return. 

He was in the process of grimly stealing himself for finding the house bereft of guests, when a out-of-place scent caught his attention. He inhaled, frowning, as the smell of cooking meat came from the kitchen.

He had not ventured out to town, telling himself that is was a precaution against Will having tampered with the brakes of the truck, or otherwise tinkered with the engine or mechanisms in a manner that would put him at risk to drive the contraption. In truth however, Hannibal was unable to bring himself to leave Will when each moment might be their last together. As a result, the contents of the fridge were entirely vegetarian, pulled from their hydroponic garden and pantry supplies. He knew there was nothing in the house that could produce such aroma, but he could not mistake the fragrance for any other.

Had Will been out to the forests to hunt game? The scattering of deer were too fleeting and swift to catch, but a well placed snare might entrap an unaware rabbit or wood pigeon, but as he opened his bedroom door, dressed only in nightclothes and dressing gown, he found that the cooking meat was not borne from such small unfortunate creatures, but most definitely that of a human. 

A surprise indeed, and yet, the sight that greeted him as he round the corner towards the dining area exceeded his every expectation. 

The table was set for breakfast, fresh bread rolls and butter curls set out on each plate. Tall glasses filled with bright fruit juice were dewed with condensation, and a pot of coffee steamed gently. A place was set for him, side by side with Will, a small gas cooker sat between them, with the lightest of his skillets balanced upon the low flame. 

Butter bubbled and browned on the metals' surface, and there, was a slice of meat, cooking in the heat.

Hannibal frowned, as he sought out the source. He caught the scent of blood in the air, but there was no-one in the kitchen save for himself.... and Will.

It was then he saw the knife, and the careful cut down Will's own chest and abdomen. 

“You have good timing. I was just about to call you through.” Will said slowly, softly, “Have a seat, I'll serve breakfast.”

As Hannibal struggled to find words suffice for the occasion, Will turned the strip of meat in the skillet over and tsked at the dark char of butter on one side. “That's a practice one... for Rover...” he explained, as he plucked it from the heat and placed it gingerly upon the striped plate marked for the raccoon. 

Then, he took up the knife at his side. He used one hand to pull downwards slightly on his belly, so that the knife had a smooth surface to work on, and proceeded to cut downwards in a slow and steady slice, his breathing stilled till he had finished the incision. He then repeated the procedure a couple of millimetres to the side, severing a fine strip of flesh from his torso. The cut was not deep, and the meat pulled was mostly fat, but there was the vivid red of muscle under the rising blood. 

He did not bother to ask what Will was doing, when the answer was painfully obvious, neither did he question Will's state of mind. The hand that held the knife had been steady, and the cuts shallow enough that a couple of stitches would be all that were needed to close the wound. 

This was no act of suicide, but a sublime sacrifice of flesh for his host. A gift, made all the more precious that it was offered of Will's own choosing.

Will dabbed at the flesh, and then lay it out across the hot butter. The meat instantly began to sizzle, and turn pale, the yellowed fat melting in the heat.

He glanced up at Hannibal, checking that the cannibal approved of the breakfast fare. Hannibal's smile was open, wide, genuine, as his eyes fixated upon the piece of meat upon the skillet.

Hannibal had no wish to end Will, but he could not deny that he had hungered for a taste of his flesh. He had imagined what it might be like to bite, and claim. To taste his very essence and hold him within himself forever. 

Trust that the empath could read such desire, and instead of baulking at the thought, find a solution that would satisfy.

The strip of meat was turned, as Will ensured that _this_ piece would not burn. 

After so long denied fresh meat, even the overly fatty cut smelt delicious, and Hannibal felt himself have to swallow, lest he start to drool upon himself like a slathering animal. 

“I had thought it might be similar to bacon, but without the curing process, it's more like a very slim porkchop... a bit odd for breakfast, but maybe next time I can try a curing method.” Will remarked, and Hannibal felt his breath catch, not only that will have been thoughtful enough to match the cut of meat to the meal, but also that he planned for a 'next time'. 

He blinked, and then realised that Will continued to bleed, albeit is a slow and sluggish trickle down his belly. Finally, as though he had suddenly remember that he not only possessed a tongue, but also an exceptional grasp of language, as well as a doctorate, Hannibal spoke; “I should see to those cuts...”

Will shook his head, “Later. First, food. Otherwise your breakfast will get cold...”

With tip of the knife (which Hannibal hated to see used in such a fashion, but given the circumstances permitted without comment) Will transferred the strip of meat to Hannibal's plate, and beckoned him to sit. 

Hannibal sank down into the chair, grateful for the solid wood, as astonishment stole the strength from his limbs. 

“I am not you.” Will started, as he turned off the stove, and shifted it to one side. “However, you have allowed me to see you, all of you, and for that I am grateful... though I might have taken my time in realising it. I do not think I will ever have the stomach for murder: too much empathy I'm afraid, but with that I do not think I could deny you what you so obviously enjoy, something that is an intrinsic part of you. So, a compromise.”

He gestured to the plate, and gave a nod that Hannibal could begin without him.

It took a great deal of effort not to forsake fork and knife in flavour of his fingers in his rush to bring the meat to his lips, but Hannibal managed somehow to cut a small piece, and spear it successfully upon the fork. 

Will watched, eyes wide and dark, as Hannibal opened his mouth, and placed the meat upon his tongue. He resisted chewing for all of a handful of heartbeats, before his teeth pressed against the cooked flesh.

The heat of skillet was too intense and too brief to properly break down the protein strands, and so his teeth had something robust to work against. It was grounding, the physical act of the bite, reassurance that this was no dream.

The abdominal muscles were firm, but due to the fatty deposits surrounding them wonderfully moist. He could feel the grain of corded muscle against his tongue, as the flavour was released, heady and rich. 

The taste of human meat was often likened to pork, or sometimes veal, but the flavour Hannibal found himself enjoying surpassed such pale comparisons. He could taste the years that had led to this moment, the undulations of life, both sweet and bitter, that Will had survived. This was no stall-reared beast, this was free-range and free spirited meat, wild and wilful. Though the pallor of the meat was pale, it bore the depth of a lifetime, lending a complex pepper-like compliment, warming and spiced upon the palate.

Most of all, he could taste the intention.

Not attempted appeasement of a cannibal, but acceptance. That although Will might not be of a mind to harvest from the unwilling, he could subsidise with something Hannibal had not dared hope for; a token of himself. 

Will was leaning over, to reach the cafetière, sensibly staying seated. It took perhaps a little more effort than usual to lift the coffee jug, but he was able to pour both himself and Hannibal a cup each without mishap. 

He was trying, unsuccessfully, not to watch Hannibal's every move, as he pulled free another portion onto his fork. Hannibal appreciated the silence, his wealth of etiquette insufficiently preparing him for appropriate words in such situation. He feared there were not enough words in any of the languages he was versed in to properly verbalise his appreciation for what Will had done.

Eventually though, Will's curiosity won out;  
“How does it taste?”

Hannibal glanced over, meeting eyes with the man who would not only dine with a cannibal, but provide the fare. 

“Wonderful.“ he breathed, “My most sincere compliments to the chef.”

Will broke into a laugh of relief, as though he'd been fearful his flesh might be bitter, or that Hannibal would neglect to properly understand the tremendous gift he had before him.

“Will you try a little and see for yourself how delectable you taste?” 

Hesitant, Will was about to shake his head when Hannibal pressed the point with a simple; “Please?”

Nervous, Will licked his lips, “OK then....”

Hannibal cut a smaller piece, and held it up to Will's mouth. Softly, Will closed his lips round, and his jaw worked at he chewed the meat. 

It was apparent from his expression he was not as enamoured as Hannibal with the taste, but he dutifully chewed and swallowed. Some part of Hannibal gleefully delighted that he would not have to share (save for that which Will had set aside for the ridiculous raccoon), but moreover he was pleased that for all that Will had done that morn, he was still himself, retaining his own personality and preference. 

In that moment, Hannibal was taken by an uncharacteristic bout of sentiment, as he came to see that by his side, was everything he had ever wanted. 

He lowered his fork.

Leaning over, Hannibal cupped against Will's chin, feeling the pulse leap and watching as pupils bloomed darkly, like spreading pools of blood. He felt, under his hand, the smallest of nods, and closed in to press his lips against Will's. 

He had intended for a chaste kiss, to start slowly on this new venture for the two of them, but it was Will, in a rush of heated air, that parted his lips and invited Hannibal in. 

The touch of their tongues together was tentative, as if each expected that the months of dancing round the moment might spark and ignite the atmosphere of the house, as but Hannibal's tongue swept forwards, past the border of Will's teeth, he found that he could taste the lingering traces of the meat in Will's mouth. Without thinking, he let out a low sound, and felt Will's lips twitch as the other man smiled. 

Amusement rapidly passed into arousal, and then assault, as Will flexed against Hannibal's mouth, a slick wet slide, greedy, _hungry_. 

A chair scraped as it was shuffled forwards to close the space between them, and hands lifted to tangle in hair, and Hannibal was overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, the rough drag of the flat of Will's tongue against the smooth underside of his own, the way his blood pulsed heavy enough to make his head spin, the perfume of Will's scent surrounding him and of course, the residue taste of flesh within his mouth and memory.

His only consolation against mourning the inability to process so many stimuli at once was the knowledge that there would be many more kisses to come. Especially as Will reciprocated so very eagerly.

When they broke apart, each chasing their breath, Will was grinning.

“How does it taste?” he whispered, hair hanging over his hooded eyes.

Hannibal looked him over, lips flushed red and chest dripping scarlet.

“Perfect.” he replied. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ending details: In the last chapter, Will cuts small pieces of himself to cook and feed to Hannibal, as replacement for the need for murders. 
> 
> And finally, we reach the end, some 100,000 words later.  
> My personal design that was always that Will was on the menu, from his dreams of being set on the dinner table, to the mealtimes being the focal point of the story.   
>  i worry that the ending might disappoint or be an unpleasant surprise, but the end donor to the meal was always the plan as a nod to Hannibal the Cannibal, and i hope that i have shown the long and slow evolution of this path so that it makes a sort of sense, whilst also staying true to Will's strength.  
> Stay tuned for both an Epilogue (where there is *finally* some x-rated action!) and a Prologue to bring us full circle.  
> It has been amazing fun to write, and the wonderful kind comments have really helped me, not only to increase my motivation to finish the story, but also to entice me to write much much more.  
> Thank you.


	52. Epilogue

Epilogue – many years later

The slow seasonal drift had once again turned the air cold and the ground shimmered with frost. The pines, sturdy and evergreen, kept their colour and vigil even as winter descended, surrounding the house as if a wintry ward protected the occupants from the trails and tribulations of the outside world. 

The keypads had fallen out of use: Will free to roam the house at his leisure. His coat hung next to Hannibal's by the door, and he often would go out for the whole day, occasionally bringing back freshly caught fish for Hannibal to dine upon. 

By night he shared Hannibal's bed.

Content to an extent he had not thought possible without being drug-addled out of ones mind, Hannibal spent his days reading, broadening the range of music he was familiar with, and cooking.

Will, for the most part and despite Hannibal's eternally hopeful efforts, was still vegetarian. Prosciutto ham the colour of claret, or clusters of crayfish decked in delicate pink frills, or pate as smooth as silk could not tempt him from his chosen diet.

The one exception, was that of his own flesh, which he allowed Hannibal to harvest twice a year for the dinner table. The next cut, they both agreed, would be a sample of subcutaneous fat from under the skin of his belly, that Hannibal would use to fry potato scones that they soak up the flavour. There would have to be enough for three, one for Will, one Hannibal, and one for the raccoon.

Hannibal was no more fond of the beast that when they first brought the animal into their lives, but had since stopped regarding the creature as a nuisance, and more unavoidable element of the outdoors, like the inevitable mud after the rain that Will tread into the house after an unsuccessful and wet day at the pond. 

He protested, a little too loudly, that he cared little for the raccoon, but Will had caught him too many times slipping Rover fatty offcuts, and cheese with a dusting of white blooming across the surface, to ensure that the animal will have the resources to survive the winter. It was older, its black rings and mask faded and grey, and rarely strayed from such a ready supply of food. Hannibal did not know the lifespan of the average raccoon, but felt that it would have have passed on and perished in the wild log ago, but for the regular meals and morsels left out for it.

He would rather not have the precious bi-annual bounty be shared with the beast, but reluctantly accepted that Will would not be swayed against including the raccoon in their established tradition. Besides, he could not deny that watching Will speak softly and smile when the animal came near was heartening, and brought cheer to him. So there was some silver lining to tolerating the raccoon, even if it meant he got less of Will as a result.

He was surprised to find that though the freezer has lay empty, and unlocked, for many months, the small slivers of Will's flesh seems to sustain him and his unusual appetite. 

He still occasionally plotted out intricate and imaginative ways to dispatch those who fell short of his regard. The slow service check-out girl had matured into a slow service check-out woman, with phone embedded into her palm and an ever-downcast gaze which was at the very best disinterested, if not outright disrespectful. Though he visualized how satisfying it would be to step out of the line where he has been made to wait while she dawdled, and into her space, grasping her and ripping the scalp from her head, offensive in the layers of astringent hairspray used to keep the strands in place, it is but a passing fancy.

For the most part, Hannibal held good humour, and found his tolerance for idiots and cretins greatly improved. 

That Will was on hand should Hannibal ever return in a more disgruntled state than when he left, to wrap his arms around him, and kiss away the tension radiating from his jaw, helped immensely. 

He would allow Will to guide him over to the coach, and rest his head down at Will's shoulder. The sound of the heartbeat, slow, like the steady tick of a metronome, grounded him, and he would soon feel his irritation slip away. 

Sometimes though, he would pull close, and feel Will's heartbeat start to pick up. If he were to look, he would see pupils grow wide and dark, as Will's hands would run across his back in circles that would swiftly transform from comforting to caressing. 

Depending on the mood at the time, they might then take the opportunity to withdraw to the bedroom, hands grasping and breaths rapid, but Hannibal's personal preference was to still Will's hands, and take time to slowly stoke the fires within. 

There would be slow music, with graceful glides upon string across cords that would twist and turn, sinking deeper into the harmonics. There would be long glances, eyes raking across skin, imagining what lay underneath fabric and cloth. There would be words, spoken softly, precisely, discussing topics of innocence but in tones of sultry desire.

By the time the sun set, heat would beat hard with every heartbeat, and Will would be near trembling, desperate for the teasing to cease and to finally be touched. Then, of course, there would be a meal.

Set for two, something light and provocative. Often sweet and savoury mixed together, as there would be little patience for more than one course. Salad sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, or roast mushrooms flecked with black salt and dark caramelised garlic, or toasted cashews and pine-nuts spiced with chilli and served with curls of chocolate to sooth the bite of fire. Maple syrup with ginger and lemon to drizzle over rice, or honey to coat carrot; Hannibal worked with Will's sweet tooth to provide dishes to alight the appetite. 

Hannibal took care with every ingredient, using the display as form of expression. He delighted in watching Will unpick the meanings; that both plates were identical, that just as Will had accepted his preference for flesh, he respected Will's vegetarianism. The way he might deliberately spoon sauce beyond the bounds of the plate, to show that his feelings could not be contained.   
His habit of pairing unusual flavours together to make something unique and exceptional.

They would eat slowly, in silence, letting the air between them fill with only the sounds of teeth closing around cutlery, and the soft murmur of appreciation for the sustenance. 

The anticipation thrilled Hannibal, but even he could hardly hold back when Will would finish the last bite of food, and lay his fork and knife down. 

They would rise, as if in standing ovation, and then, at last, come together. Fingertips gliding across cheek and chin, followed by breath as they curled into one another's space. 

Mostly they would then retire to the bedroom, but occasionally the long drawn-out foreplay had pulled the passions too high, and Hannibal was grateful that the dinning table was made of sturdy wood, enough to support the weight of two men.

The bedroom however, made for more comfortable environ, especially as Hannibal started to slowly strip Will from his clothes, hardly remembering to remove his own. 

He would lay Will out upon the sheets, drinking in the sight of him, marking the contrast of dark cotton against flushed skin. Will would blush, even after countless copulations, yet unused to the way Hannibal would marvel at his beauty. 

Will's body was a map of scars, and Hannibal would touch his fingertips upon them with great reverence; here, where a quarter pint had been drained for blood pudding, there, a chunk of thigh for roasting. 

As fingertips brushed against the raised ridges of scar tissue, Will would glance up at Hannibal and give a slow nod.

It was then, that Hannibal truly appreciated what a gift he had in Will, for his emapthy was acute, and his trust unshakable. To be permitted to gorge his senses on Will, with finger and lip and tongue. Thoroughly, he traced every inch of Will's body, committing the details to his memory anew.

Hannibal would delight as Will slowly sank into sensation, feeling Hannibal taste the sweat on his skin, basking in the adoration. 

Depending on the trails of the day, Will would either lay back, revelling in every caress, or give a lopsided smile, stretching his body and bring his arms up over his head.   
“You can bite.” he would whisper, knowing that that darker side of Hannibal needed the power like air, like _meat_.

The first time Will had submitted in such a manner, Hannibal had drawn back, and it was only when Will coaxed him to clasp round Will's wrist and press his weight down upon the other, that he felt the rush of complete control that he had found absent in his day-to-day routines.  
“I trust you.” Will had said, and pulled against Hannibal's grip to ensure it would hold. 

Hannibal was always careful, but that did not necessarily guarantee that Will would not wear his marks come the morn. Bruises splayed in the shape of fingertips, pressing into the skin, and the dark purple crescents of teeth inlaid against flesh, were the symbols of Hannibal's sentiment. 

It was slow and sensuous, a symphony played upon Will's skin and scars. 

Hannibal revelled in the reign supreme that Will allowed him, and painted Will in his passion. He would scrap his teeth across collar bone, watching as the skin sensitised in his wake. Fingertips would press against jaw, and cheek, and hip, as if leaving prints at a crime scene. Lips would close over the skin of the ballsack, mouthing against delicate tissue. He would lean in with his nose and inhale, drinking in the aroma of Will, and how it changed, different at the neck to the chest to the groin, and how arousal shifted the scent with notes of musk and salt and lust. 

With oil thick over his fingers, he'd open Will's puckered ring, slipping a single digit inside, and feeling the sensation of hot silk around him. Will would relax at his touch, more than ready to take Hannibal's dick. 

Even though Hannibal always ensured that there was sufficient preparation, every time he pushed inside, Will felt snug round him, like they were two pieces of a puzzle slotting together.

He would dip his hips in long, deep thrusts, that Will met with thrown back head and breathless pants for more. 

The sheets would be clutched into rosettes as the pace quickened, nothing but the obscene slap of skin against skin, and wordless noises pulled from throats as they each neared their limits. 

Hannibal would reach under Will's body, and wrap his already slick hand against the heavy length he found bobbing between Will's legs, pumping in time as he claimed the man for the night and for always.

Most of the time, Will retained enough of his senses to grab one of the bedside handkerchiefs to catch his seed as it spurted from him, saving the sheets that they could sleep without sticky residue, but Hannibal always took particular pride when he managed to render Will into such a state of lust and need that he forgot. 

Hearing Will's breathy sign of completion often served as cue for his own release, however on occasion, Hannibal was known to let himself go, and pound down into the sensitised body underneath him, hard and heavy and all but growling as he bite down on the fleshy curve of shoulder till Will shuddered and shivered, and he found satisfaction.

In the aftermath, Will had habit of chuckling as Hannibal fussed over any lines of nails or toothmarks that were bleeding, and batting away his attempts to administer first aid. He would accept a simple sterilised cloth to cleanse the wounds, hissing halfheartedly at the sting, his body usually too weary to register the pain properly.   
Once the risk of infection was suitably decreased, he would slide over to his side of the bed, and demand that Hannibal settle and rest. 

They would collapse, sweaty and sated, and sleep, arms entwined together and heartbeats slowing in sync. 

***********

As with breakfast, Will's rule was over the early hours. 

He would wake, and if the mood took him, start to stroke and caress against Hannibal's cheek, his chest, his hip, till the other was roused. 

He would then lean in, and kiss Hannibal, to make clear his desire. 

Sometimes he would request that Hannibal fuck him, other times he had the pleasure, but his favoured way to wake was for Hannibal to lower himself down the bed, and set that wicked mouth to work on his cock. 

Softer, but with the knowledge that Hannibal's jaw would lock if he was not wary of the time passing, Will loved the sight of Hannibal's eyes growing dark as his mouth stretched over his dick. Will's thick hair, akin to the strands on his hair, was unruly and dark, and made for tantalising contrast to those pale lips. 

Hannibal was skilled with his tongue, lapping and flicking along the thick length, but it was the hint of teeth, the smooth enamel encompassing Hannibal's darker desires yet kept in check by the man, that would tip Will over, and allow him to fall back against the bed with a low moan of pleasure. 

Hannibal would swallow, and sit up, massaging the line of his jaw to ease the ache, and smile down at Will's relaxed form. 

He would let Will drift and doze, his own libido rarely stirred in the early morning, and once awake usually too restless to return to bed. He would quietly tiptoe from the bedroom, and leave Will to spread out against the bed, warm, and perfectly happy.


	53. Prologue

The fading light of day cast strange shadows over Hannibal's office, as evening claimed dominion. 

Will had made valiant effort to remaining sitting in the chair set out for him, but before long had risen and started to pace about the room. Hannibal remained at his own desk, a steady point of reference for Will's wanderings, an anchor. 

It was to be expected that Will was so restless, there had been yet another brutal Ripper murder, and Jack had not been tactful in voicing his frustrations at Will's vague answers beyond confirmation that the Chesapeake Ripper had indeed claimed another victim, despite their continued efforts to trace him, or indeed find even a scrap of a clue.

Thankfully, Hannibal was quiet, any questions he might have had put aside as he allowed Will to pace and process the events at his own pace. 

He sighed, weary, and leaned against the bookshelf. Hannibal raised his head, concerned for the safety of his volumes, but when he saw that Will had picked the metapyhsical section, all dream interpretations and karmic energies, to collapse against settled. 

“You know, I don't think we're ever going to catch him.” Will lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, as he spoke words that he could not dare to voice in front of his colleagues. “We keep waiting for him to make a mistake, a misstep, but he never will. He's clever, far more clever than us, and he knows it.”

From working with Will, he knew the other's aversion to eye contact, so with his eyes directed down at his desk as he sketched a European building from memory, Hannibal's lips flashed up a smile. 

He had become complacent in the other's company, and not suspect that Will would see.

Will however, with Hannibal's absence of demands, had come to feel comfortable in Hannibal's presence. Comfortable enough to flick his eyes occasionally across to check that he was not being stared at, like a specimen in the jar, and knowing that he would not be disappointed.

Worse than being subjected to eye contact, expectant and intimidating, was what was nearly a text-book display of the Dupers Delight, where a criminal, in thinking they had got away with a crime, would twitch their face in glee at the success of their deception. It could be a creasing of the eyes, or a briefly raised eyebrow, or, as demonstrated by his therapist, a smile.

His breath shuddered, and Will turned his head, as if trying to unsee. Realisation, however, honed by a mind trained to catch criminals, started to fit the pieces together.

Surgical precision, and a growing knowledge of those involved in his own investigation, matched with a wicked intelligence. Trophies not kept, but purposefully taken and.... Will pout a hand over his mouth, as he gagged at the thought of Hannibal's unusual predilection for organ meat. 

He shook his head, desperately trying to deny the fact that he had found the Chesapeake Ripper.

If given the choice, he'd have rather stayed ignorant, and kept faith in his friend. 

He swallowed hard, and looked at Hannibal, wanting the man to laugh off such a accusation, to explain it all away in his calm voice.

Instead, he found Hannibal staring at him, head quirked to the side as he wondered at Will's strange behaviour. Slowly, as he drank in the fear that was directed at him, it became clear that his smile had been witnessed, and that he could hide no longer from Will Graham. 

He rose from his chair, and it was like Dr Lecter had shed his skin, after so long mascaraing. There was something of relief at being seen for what he was, as he stood, ominously predatory, hand hovering over the scalpel he used to sharpen his pencils as if to drive the understanding home, like the final nail in Will's coffin. 

A new realisation, that he was going to die, gripped Will, as Hannibal started to move. He backed away, hands held up. 

“No....” he whispered, not begging for his life, but a plea for the sudden lurch in Hannibal's character to be untrue. 

Hannibal closed in, frighteningly fast, and pressed his forearm against Will's throat, trapping him against the bookshelf, lifting just enough that his air was cut off.

He struggled, reactive, desperate, futile, and brief, as Hannibal held him till his eyes shut and body went limp.

He lowered Will carefully, as he slumped to the ground. Rolling him to his side, he placed the man in the recovery position, to facilitate air returning to his lungs, as he drew in ragged and hoarse breaths.

Satisfied that Will could breathe, and that he had not inadvertently crushed the trachea, Hannibal started to ready his office for immediate evacuation.

There was a notebook, in a locked drawer, where he often jotted down ideas for flavour combinations as they came to him, for later experimentation at home, as well as other little tidbits that he might later have found useful; the name of Jack's wife's doctor, the phone number of a patient on the verge of lashing out in paranoid disillusion that her mother was trying to have her sterilised, the exact location of another patient's father's grave, and the number of dogs Will was currently housing. 

This he took, as well as one of his appointment books. 

There were two, almost identical, but slight changes to the times certain patients were seen, so that should he need it he had a note of where he was at certain times, to provide alibi. His patients would have little to conflict with his times, and if asked if they saw their therapist at 2pm or 3pm, they would shrug and say that whatever Hannibal had down in his book must be correct. The last difference, was that the day's current date was left blank. He copied the list of people he had seen, expect for Will's appointment.   
When consulted, it would seem as if Will had not been scheduled to be there.

Finally, he went to the clock, and from hidden compartment behind the mechanism, took out his stash of unmarked syringes. He knew exactly which he could require to keep Will sleeping till they reached his home, and with careful fingers, traced the vein before pressing the needle under to skin. 

Will made a soft noise of protest as Hannibal lifted him, and the books, and made his way to his car. 

He did not give his office parting glance, he was too much looking forward to the future, and what it held in store for him and his new found House Guest.


End file.
